University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

Gift  of 
Roger  DeNault 


THE   HERMITAGE 


AND 


OTIII.R     POEMS 


BY 


EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL. 


NEW   YORK: 
LEYPOLDT  &   HOLT. 

1868. 


Entered  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  In  the  year  1887, 

BY  E.  R.  BILL, 

In  the  Clerk's  Offlce  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States 
the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


ANDERSON    &    RAMSAY,   Print*rt, 
28  Frankfort  Street,  N.  Y. 


CONTENTS. 


VA(,K 


TICK  HERMITAGK 7 

SUNDOWN 48 

THK  AKI-H 50 

AI-KIL  IN  OAKLAND 52 

\Vivii.K 55 

SLEEPING  .......  57 

STARLIGHT 59 

A  DEAD  BIRD  IN  \Vi.vi  n<  ...  62 

SI-KIN.;  Twiu<;ni    ...  .          .  64 

EVEM.N.; 66 

THE  ORGAN 68 

A  MEMORY 70 

LOST  LOVE 72 

IxFI.rKNCES 74 

A  DAILY  MIRACLE 75 

LlFE 77 

I  HE  CHOICE 78 

MORNING  .......  70 

A   PRAYER 8 1 

THE  POLAR  SEA 83 


4  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

FAITH 86 

FERTILITY 

Music 90 

THREE  SONGS 93 

DESPAIR  AND  HOPE         ...  95 

WISDOM  AND  FAME 98 

SERENITY 100 

THE  RUBY  HEART 102 

To  CHILD  ANNA 107 

THE  WORLD'S  SECRET          .         .         .         .109 

THE  FOUNTAIN       .         .         .         .         .  in 

DISCONTENT         .         .         .         .         .         .113 

SOLITUDE        .         .         .         .         .         .  115 

A  PARADOX          .         .         .         .         .         .116 

THE  FUTURE  .         .         .         .         .  117 

RETROSPECT         .         .         .         .         .         .119 

HOME    .         .         .         .         .         .         .  121 

THE  DEAD  PRESIDENT          .         .         .         .125 

SEEMING  AND  BEING        .         .         .         .  128 

SUMMER  AFTERNOON 131 

WEATHER-BOUND 134 

To  CHILD  SARA 136 

A  FABLE 139 

THE  CREATION    .         .         .         .         .         .144 

THE  FIRST  CAUSE  .         .         .         .  145 

SEMELE        .         .         .         .         .         .         .148 

A  POET'S  APOLOGY          .         .         .         .  152 


POEMS. 


I. 

THE   HERMITAGE.* 

A  LIFE, — a  common,  cleanly,  quiet  life, 
Full  of  good  citizenship  and  repute, 
New,  but  with  promise  of  prosperity, — 
A  well-bred,  fair,  young-gentlemanly  life, — 
What  business  had  a  girl  to  bring  her  eyes, 
And  her  blonde  hair,  and  her  clear,  ringing  voice, 
And  break  up  life,  as  a  bell  breaks  a  dream  ? 
Had  Love  Christ's  wrath,  and  did  this  life  sell  doves 
In  the  world's  temple,  that  Love  scourged  it  forth 
Beyond  the  gates  ?     Within,  the  worshippers, — 
Without,  the  waste,  and  the  hill-country,  where 
The  life,  with  smarting  shoulders  and  stung  heart, 
Unknowing  that  the  hand  which  scourged  could  heal, 
Drave  forth,  blind,  cursing,  in  despair  to  die, 
Or  work  its  own  salvation  out  in  fear. 


Old  World— old,  foolish,  wicked  World— farewell ! 


*  California,  Bay  of  San  Francisco,  1866. 


0  77/7';  HSBMITAQE. 

Since  the  Time-angel  left  my  soul  with  thee, 
Thou  hast  been  a  hard  step-mother  unto  me. 
Now  I  at  last  rebel 
Against  thy  stony  eyes  and  cruel  hands. 

1  will  go  seek  in  far-off  lands 

Some  quiet  corner,  where  my  years  shall  be 

Still  as  the  shadow  of  a  brooding  bird 

That  stirs  but  with  her  heart-beats.     Far,  unheard 

May  wrangle  on  the  noisy  human  host, 

While  I  will  face  my  Life,  that  silent  ghost, 

And  force  it  speak  what  it  would  have  with  me. 

Not  of  the  fair  young  Earth, 
The  snow-crowned,  sunny-belted  globe  ; 
Not  of  its  skies,  nor  Twilight's  purple  robe, 
Nor  pearly  dawn  ;  not  of  the  flowers'  birth, 
And  Autumn's  forest-funerals  ;  not  of  storms, 
And  quiet  seas,  and  clouds'  incessant  forms ; 
Not  of  the  sanctuary  of  the  night, 
With  its  solemnities,  nor  any  sight 
And  pleasant  sound  of  all  the  friendly  day  : 
But  I  am  tired  of  what  we  call  our  lives  ; 
Tired  of  the  endless  humming  in  the  hives, — 
Sick  of  the  bitter  honey  that  we  eat, 
And  sick  of  cursing  all  the  shallow  cheat. 


THE  HERMITAGE. 

Let  me  arise,  and  away 
To  the  land  that  guards  the  dying  day, 
Whose  burning  tear,  the  evening-star, 
Drops  silently  to  the  wave  afar  ; 
The  land  where  summers  never  cease 
Their  sunny  psalm  of  light  and  peace. 
Whose  moonlight,  poured  for  years  untold, 
Has  drifted  down  in  dust  of  gold  ; 
Whose  morning  splendors,  fallen  in  showers, 
Leave  ceaseless  sunrise  in  the  flowers. 

There  I  will  choose  some  eyrie  in  the  hills, 
Where  I  may  build,  like  a  lonely  bird," 
And  catch  the  whispered  music  heard 
Out  of  the  noise  of  human  ills. 


So,  I  am  here  at  last ; 

A  purer  world,  whose  feet  the  old,  salt  Past 
Washes  against,  and  leaves  it  fresh  and  free 
As  a  new  island  risen  from  the  sea. 

Three  dreamy  weeks  we  lay  on  Ocean's  breast, 
Rocked  asleep,  by  gentle  winds  caressed, 
Or  crooned  with  wild  wave-lullabies  to  rest. 


10  THE  HERMITAGE. 

A  memory  of  foam  and  glassy  spray  ; 

Wave  chasing  wave,  like  young  sea-beasts  at  play ; 

Stretches  of  misty  silver  'neath  the  moon, 

And  night-airs  murmuring  many  a  quiet  tune. 

Three  long,  delicious  weeks'  monotony 

Of  sky,  and  stars,  and  sea, 

Broken  midway  by  one  day's  tropic  scene 

Of  giant  plants,  tangles  of  luminous  green, 

With  fiery  flowers  and  purple  fruits  between. 

I  have  found  a  spot  for  my  hermitage, — 
No  dank  and  sunless  cave, — 
I  come  not  for  a  dungeon,  nor  a  cage, — 
Not  to  be  Nature's  slave, 
But,  as  a  weary  child, 
Unto  the  mother's  faithful  arms  I  flee, 
And  seek  the  sunniest  footstool  at  her  knee, 
Where  I  may  sit  beneath  caresses  mild, 
And  hear  the  sweet  old  songs  that  she  will  sing  to 
me. 

Tis  a  grassy  mountain-nook, 
In  a  gorge,  whose  foaming  brook 
Tumbles  through  from  the  heights  above, 
Merrily  leaping  to  the  light 


THE  HERMITAGE.  II 

From  the  pine-wood's  haunted  gloom, — 

As  a  romping  child, 

Affrighted,  from  a  sombre  room 

Leaps  to  the  sunshine,  laughing  with  delight : 

Be  this  my  home,  by  man's  tread  undefiled. 

Here  sounds  no  voice  but  of  the  mourning  dove, 

Nor  harsher  footsteps  on  the  sands  appear 

Than  the  sharp,  slender  hoof-marks  of  the  deer, 

Or  where  the  quail  has  left  a  zizzag  row 

Of  lightly-printed  stars  her  track  to  show. 

Above  me  frowns  a  front  of  rocky  wall, 
Deep  cloven  into  ruined  pillars  tall 
And  sculptures  strange  ;  bald  to  its  dizzy  edge, 
Save  where,  in  some  deep  crevice  of  a  ledge 
Buttressed  by  its  black  shadow  hung  below, 
A  solitary  pine  has  cleft  the  rock, — 
Straight  as  an  arrow,  feathered  to  the  tip, 
As  if  a  shaft  from  the  moon-huntress'  bow 
Had  struck  and  grazed  the  cliff's  defiant  lip, 
And  stood,  still  stiffly  quivering  with  the  shock. 

Beyond  the  gorge  a  slope  runs  half-way  up, 
With  hollow  curve  as  for  a  giant's  cup, 


12  THE  1IEEMITAGE. 

Brimming  with  blue  pine-shadows  :  then  in  air 

The  gray  rock  rises  bare, 

Its  front  deep-fluted  by  the  sculptor-storms 

In  moulded  columns,  rounded  forms, 

As  if  great  organ-pipes  were  chiselled  there, 

Whose  anthems  are  the  torrent's  roar  below, 

And  chanting  winds  that  through  the  pine-tops  go. 

Here  bursts  of  requiem  music  sink  and  rise, 

When  the  full  moonlight,  slowly  streaming,  lies 

Like  panes  of  gold  on  some  cathedral  pave, 

While  floating  mists  their  silver  incense  wave, 

And  from  on  high,  through  fleecy  window-bars, 

Gaze  down  the  saintly  faces  of  the  stars. 

Against  the  huge  trunk  of  a  storm-snapped  tree, 
(Whose  hollow,  ready-hewn  by  long  decay, 
Above,  a  chimney,  lined  with  slate  and  clay, 
Below,  a  broad-arched  fireplace  makes  for  me,) 
I've  built  of  saplings  and  long  limbs  a  hut. 
The  roof  with  lacing  boughs  is  tightly  shut, 
Thatched  with  thick-spreading  palms  of  pine, 
And  tangled  over  by  a  wandering  vine, 
Uprooted  from  the  woods  close  by, 
Whose  clasping  tendrils  climb  and  twine, 
Waving  their  little  hands  on  high, 


THE  HERMITAGE.  13 

As  if  they  loved  to  deck  this  nest  of  mine. 
Within,  by  smooth  white  stones  from  the  brook's  beach 
My  rooms  are  separated,  each  from  each. 
On  yonder  island-rock  my  table's  spread, 
Brook-ringed,  that  no  stray,  fasting  ant  may  come 
To  make  himself  with  my  wild  fare  at  home. 

Here  will  I  live,  and  here  my  life  shall  be 
Serene,  still,  rooted  steadfastly, 
Yet  pointing  skyward,  and  its  motions  keep 
A  rhythmic  balance,  as  that  cedar  tall, 
Whose  straight  shaft  rises  from  the  chasm  there, 
Through  the  blue,  hollow  air, 
And,  measuring  the  dizzy  deep, 
Leans  its  long  shadow  on  the  rock's  gray  wall. 


Through  the  sharp  gap  of  the  gorge  below, 
From  my  mountains'  feet  the  gaze  may  go 
Over  a  stretch  of  fields,  broad-sunned, 
Then  glance  beyond, 
Across  the  beautiful  bay, 
To  that  dim  ridge,  a  score  of  miles  away, 
Lifting  its  clear-cut  outline  high, 
Azure  with  distance  on  the  azure  sky, 
2 


14  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Whose  flocks  of  white  clouds  brooding  on  its  crests 

Have  winged  from  ocean  to  their  piny  nests. 

Beyond  the  bright  blue  water's  further  rim, 

Where  waves  seem  ripples  on  its  far-off  brim, 

The  rich  young  city  lies, 

Diminished  to  an  ant-hill's  size. 

I  trace  its  steep  streets,  ribbing  all  the  hill 

Like  narrow  bands  of  steel, 

Binding  the  city  on  the  shifting  sand  : 

Thick-pressed  between  them  stand 

Broad  piles  of  buildings,  pricked  through  here  and 

there 

By  a  sharp  steeple  ;  and  above,  the  air 
Murky  with  smoke  and  dust,  that  seem  to  show 
The  bright  sky  saddened  by  the  sin  below. 


The  voice  of  my  wild  brook  is  marvellous ; 
Leaning  above  it  from  a  jutting  rock 
To  watch  the  image  of  my  face,  that  forms 
And  breaks,  and  forms  again  (as  the  image  of  God 
Is  broken  and  re-gathered  in  a  soul,) 
I  listen  to  the  chords  that  sink  and  swell 
From  many  a  little  fall  and  babbling  run. 
That  hollow  gurgle  is  the  deepest  base  ; 
Over  the  pebbles  gush  contralto  tones, 


THE  HERMITAGE.  15 

While  shriller  trebles  tinkle  merrily, 
Running,  like  some  enchanted-fingered  flute, 
Endless  chromatics. 

Now  it  is  the  hum 

And  roar  of  distant  streets  ;  the  rush  of  winds 
Through  far-off  forests  :  now  the  noise  of  rain 
Drumming  the  roof;  the  hiss  of  ocean-foam  : 
Now  the  swift  ripple  of  piano-keys 
In  mad  mazurkas,  danced  by  laughing  girls. 

So,  night  and  day,  the  hurrying  brook  goes  on  ; 
Sometimes  in  noisy  glee,  sometimes  far  down, 
Silent  along  the  bottom  of  the  gorge, 
Like  a  deep  passion  hidden  in  the  soul, 
That  chafes  in  secret  hunger  for  its  sea  : 
Yet  not  so  still  but  that  heaven  finds  its  course ; 
And  not  so  hid  but  that  the  yearning  night 
Broods  over  it,  and  feeds  it  with  her  stars. 


When  earth  has  Eden  spots  like  this  for  man, 
Why  will  he  drag  his  life  where  lashing  storms 
Whip  him  indoors,  the  petulant  weather's  slave  ? 
There  he  is  but  a  helpless,  naked  snail, 
Except  he  wear  his  house  close  at  his  back. 
Here  the  wide  air  builds  him  his  palace  walls, — 


1 6  THE  HE  EMIT  AGE. 

Some  little  corner  of  it  roofed,  for  sleep  ; 
Or  he  can  lie  all  night,  bare  to  the  sky, 
And  feel  updrawn  against  the  breast  of  heaven, 
Letting  his  thoughts  stretch  out  among  the  stars, 
As  the  antennae  of  an  insect  grope 
Blindly  for  food,  or  as  the  ivy's  shoots 
Clamber  from  cope  and  tower  to  find  the  light, 
And  drink  the  electric  pulses  of  the  sun. 

As  from  that  sun  we  draw  the  coarser  fire 
That  swells  the  veins,  and  builds  the  brain  and  bone, 
So  from  each  star  a  finer  influence  streams, 
Kindling  within  the  mortal  chrysalis 
The  first  faint  thrills  of  its  new  life  to  come. 


Here  is  no  niggard  gap  of  sky  above, 
With  murk  and  mist  below,  but  all  sides  clear, — 
Not  an  inch  bated  from  the  full-swung  dome  ; 
Each  constellation  to  the  horizon's  rim 
Keen-glittering,  as  if  one  only  need 
Walk  to  the  edge  there,  spread  his  wings,  and  float, 
The  dark  earth  spurned  behind,  into  the  blue. 

I  love  thee,  thou  brown,  homely,  dear  old  Earth  ! 


THE  HERMITAGE.  17 

Those  fairer  planets  whither  fate  may  lead, 

Whatever  marvel  be  their  bulk  or  speed, 

Ringed  with  what  splendor,  belted  round  with  fire, 

In  glory  of  perpetual  moons  arrayed, 

Can  ne'er  give  back  the  glow  and  fresh  desire 

Of  youth  in  that  old  home  where  man  had  birth, 

Whose  paths  he  trod  through  wholesome  light  and 

shade. 

Out  of  their  silver  radiance  to  thy  dim 
And  clouded  orb  his  eye  will  turn, 
As  an  old  man  looks  back  to  where  he  played 
About  his  father's  hearth,  and  finds  for  him 
No  splendor  like  the  fires  which  there  did  burn. 


See  :  I  am  come  to  live  alone  with  thee. 
Thou  hast  had  many  a  one,  grown  old  and  worn, 
Come  to  thee  weary  and  forlorn, 
Bent  with  the  weight  of  human  vanity. 
But  I  come  with  my  life  almost  untried, 
In  thy  perpetual  presence  to  abide. 
Teach  me  thy  wisdom  ;  let  me  learn  the  flowers, 
And  know  the  rocks  and  trees, 
And  touch  the  springs  of  all  thy  hidden  powers. 
Let  the  still  gloom  of  thy  rock-fastnesses 

2* 


1 8  TllK   J/h'/t  MS  T.I  (,A. 

Fall  deep  upon  my  spirit,  till  the  voice 

Of  brooks  become  familiar,  and  my  heart  rejoice 

With  joy  of  birds  and  winds  ;  and  all  the  hours, 

Unmaddened  by  the  babble  of  vain  men, 

Bring  thy  most  inner  converse  to*  my  ken. 

So  shall  it  be,  that,  when  I  stand 

On  that  next  planet's  ruddy-shimmering  strand, 

I  shall  not  seem  a  pert  and  forward  child 

Seeking  to  dabble  in  abstruser  lore 

With  alphabet  unlearned,  who  in  disgrace 

Returns,  upon  his  primer  yet  to  pore — 

But  those  examiners,  all  wise  and  mild, 

Shall  gently  lead  me  to  my  place, 

As  one  that  faithfully  did  trace 

These  simpler  earthly  records  o'er  and  o'er. 


Beckoned  at  sunrise  by  the  surfs  white  hand, 
I  have  strayed  down  to  sit  upon  the  beach, 
And  hear  the  oratorio  of  the  Sea. 
On  this  steep,  crumbling  bank,  where  the  high  tide's 
Have  crunched  the  earth  away,  a  crooked  oak — 
A  hunch-backed  dwarf,  whose  limbs,  cramped  down 

by  gales, 

Have  twisted  stiffening  back  upon  themselves — 
Spreads  me  a  little  arbor  from  the  sun. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  19 

On  the  brown,  shining  beach,  all  ripple-carved, 
Gleams  now  and  then  a  pool ;  so  smooth  and  clear, 
That,  though  I  cannot  see  the  plover  there 
Pacing  its  farther  edge  (so  much  he  looks 
The  color  of  the  sand),  yet  I  can  trace 
His  image  hanging  in  the  glassy  brine — 
Slim  legs  and  rapier-beak — like  silver-plate 
With  such  a  pictured  bird  clean-etched  upon  it. 

Beyond,  long  curves  of  little  shallow  waves 
Creep,  tremulous  with  ripples,  to  the  shore,    ' 
Till  the  whole  bay  seems  slowly  sliding  in, 
With  edge  of  snow  that  melts  against  the  sand. 

Above  its  twinkling  blue,  where  ceaselessly 
The  white  curve  of  a  slender  arm  of  foam 
Is  reached  along  the  water,  and  withdraw^, 
A  flock  of  sea-birds  darken  into  specks  ; 
Then  whiten,  as  they  wheel  with  sunlit  wings, 
Winking  and  wavering  against  the  sky. 

The  earth  for  form,  the  sea  for  coloring, 
And  overhead,  fair  daughters  of  the  two, 
The  clouds,  whose  curves  were  moulded  on  the  hills, 
Whose  tints  of  pearl  and  foam  the  ocean  gave. 


20  THE  HERMITAGE. 

O  Sea,  thou  art  all  beautiful,  but  dumb  ! 
Thou  hast  no  utterance  articulate 
For  human  ears  ;  only  a  restless  moan 
Of  barren  tides,  that  loathe  the  living  earth 
As  alien,  striving  towards  the  barren  moon. 
Thou  art  no  longer  infinite  to  man  : 
Has  he  not  touched  thy  boundary-shores,  and  now 
Laid  his  electric  fetters  round  thy  feet  ? 
Thy  dumb  moan  saddens  me  ;  let  me  go  back 
And  listen  to  the  silence  of  the  hills. 

";;>    At  last  I  live  alone  : 
No  human  judgment-seats  are  here 
Thrust  in  between  man  and  his  Maker's  throne, 
With  praise  to  covet,  or  with  frown  to  fear  : 
No  small,  distorted  judgments  bless,  or  blame  ; 
Only  to  Him  I  own 
The  inward  sense  of  worth,  or  flush  of  shame. 

God  made  the  man  alone  ; 
And  all  that  first  grand  morning  walked  he  so. 
Then  was  he  strong  and  wise,  till  at  the  noon, 
When  tired  with  joyous  wonder  he  lay  prone 
For  rest  and  sleep,  God  let  him  know 
The  subtile  sweetness  that  is  bound  in  Two. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  21 

Man  rises  best  alone  : 

Upward  his  thoughts  stream,  like  the  leaping  flame, 
Whose  base  is  tempest-blown ; 
Upward  and  skyward,  since  from  thence  they  came, 
And  thither  they  must  flow. 
But  when  in  twos  we  go, 
The  lightnings  of  the  brain  weave  to  and  fro, 
Level  across  the  abyss  that  parts  us  all  ; 
If  upward,  only  slantwise,  as  we  scale 
Slowly  together  that  night-shrouded  wall 
Which  bounds  our  reason,  lest  our  reason  fail. 
If  linked  in  threes,  and  fives, 
However  heavenward  the  spirit  strives, 
The  lowest  stature  draws  the  highest  down, — 
The  king  must  keep  the  level  of  the  clown. 
The  grosser  matter  has  the  greater  power 
In  all  attraction  ;  every  hour 
We  slide  and  slip  to  lower  scales, 
Till  weary  aspiration  fails, 
And  that  keen  fire  which  might  have  pierced  the 

skies, 
Is  quenched  and  killed  in  one  another's  eyes. 

A  child  had  blown  a  bubble  fair 
That  floated  in  the  sunny  air  : 


22  THE  HERMITAGE. 

A  hundred  rainbows  danced  and  swung 
Upon  its  surface,  as  it  hung 
In  films  of  changing  color  rolled, 
Crimson,  and  amethyst,  and  gold, 
With  faintest  streaks  of  azure  sheen, 
And  curdling  rivulets  of  green. 
"If  so  the  surface  shines,"  cried  he, 
"What  marvel  must  the  centre  be  1" 
He  caught  it — on  his  empty  hands 
A  drop  of  turbid  water  stands  ! 


With  men,  to  help  the  moments  fly, 
I  tossed  the  ball  of  talk  on  high, 
With  glancing  jest,  and  random  stings, 
Grazing  the  crests  of  thoughts  and  things, 
In  many  a  shifting  ray  of  speech 
That  shot  swift  sparkles,  each  to  each. 
I  thought,  "Ah,  could  we  pierce  below 
To  inner  soul,  what  depths  would  show  !" 
In  friendships  many,  loves  a  few, 
I  pierced  the  inner  depths,  and  knew 
'Twas  but  the  shell  that  splendor  caught : 
Within,  one  sour  and  selfish  thought. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  2$ 

I  found  a  grotto,  hidden  in  the  gorge, 
Paved  by  the  brook  in  rare  Mosaic  work 
Of  sand,  and  lucent  depths,  and  shadow-streaks 
Veining  the  amber  of  the  sun-dyed  wave. 
Between  two  mossy  masses  of  gray  rock 
Lay  a  clear  basin,  which,  with  sun  and  shade 
Bewitched,  a  great  transparent  opal  made, 
Over  whose  broken  rims  the  water  ran. 
Above  each  rocky  side  leaned  waving  trees 
Whose  lace  of  branches  wove  a  restless  roof, 
Trailed  over  by  green  vines  that  sifted  down 
A  dust  of  sunshine  through  the  chilly  shade. 

Leaning  against  a  trunk  of  oak,  rock -wedged, 
Whose  writhen  roots  were  clenched  upon  the  stones, 
I  was  a  Greek,  and  caught  the  sudden  flash 
Of  a  scared  Dryad's  vanishing  robe,  and  heard 
The  laughter,  half-suppressed,  of  hiding  Fauns. 
Up  the  dark  stairway  of  the  tumbling  stream 
The  sun  shot  through,  and  struck  each  foamy  fall 
Into  a  silvery  veil  of  dazzling  fire. 
Along  its  shady  course,  the  tossing  drops 
By  some  swift  sunbeam  ever  caught,  were  lit  .. 
To  sparkling  stars,  that  fell,  and  flashed,  and  fell, 
Incessantly  rekindled.     Bubble-troops 


24  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Came  dancing  by,  to  break  just  at  my  feet  ; 
Lo  !  every  bubble  mirrored  the  whole  scene — 
The  streak  of  blue  between  the  roofing-boughs, 
And  on  it  my  own  face  in  miniature 
Quaintly  distorted,  as  if  some  small  elf 
Peered  up  at  me  beneath  his  glassy  dome. 


If  men  but  knew  the  mazes  of  the  brain 
And  all  its  crowded  pictures,  they  would  need 
No  Louvre  or  Vatican  :  behind  our  brows 
Intricate  galleries  are  built,  whose  walls 
Are  rich  with  all  the  splendors  of  a  life. 
Each  crimson  leaf  of  every  autumn  walk, 
Dewdrops  of  childhood's  mornings,  every  scene 
From  any  window  where  we've  chanced  to  stand, 
Forgotten  sunsets,  summer  afternoons, 
Hang  fresh  in  those  immortal  galleries. 
Few  ever  can  unlock  them,  till  great  Death 
Unrolls  our  life-long  memory  as  a  scroll. 
One  key  is  solitude,  and  silence  one, 
And  one  a  quiet  mind,  content  to  rest 
In  God's  sufficiency,  and  take  His  world, 
Not  dabbling  all  the  Master's  work  to  death 
With  our  small  interference.     God  is  God. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  2$ 

Yet  we  must  give  the  children  leave  to  use 
Our  garden-tools,  though  they  spoil  tool  and  plant 
In  learning.     So  the  Master  may  not  scorn 
Our  awkwardness,  as  with  these  bungling  hands, 
We  try  to  uproot  the  ill,  and  plant  with  good 
Life's  barren  soil :  the  child  is  learning  use. 
Perhaps  the  angels  even  are  forbid 
To  laugh  at  us,  or  may  not  care  to  laugh, 
With  kind  eyes  pitying  our  little  hurts. 

7Tis  ludicrous  that  man  should  think  he  roams 
Freely  at  will  a  world  planned  for  his  use. 
Lo,  what  a  mite  he  is  !     Snatched  hither  and  yon, 
Tossed  round  the  sun,  and  in  its  orbit  flashed 
Round  other  centres,  orbits  without  end  ; 
His  bit  of  brain  too  small  to  even  feel 
The  spinning  of  the  little  hailstone,  Earth. 
So  his  creeds  glibly  prate  of  choice  and  will, 
When  his  whole  fate  is  an  invisible  speck 
Whirled  through  the  orbits  of  Eternity. 


We  think  that  we  believe 
That  human  souls  shall  live,  and  live, 
When  trees  have  rotted  into  mould, 
And  all  the  rocks  which  these  long  hills  enfold 
3 


26  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Have  crumbled,  and  beneath  new  oceans  lie. 

But  why — ah,  why — 

If  puny  man  is  not  indeed  to  die, 

Watch  I  with  such  disdain 

That  human  speck  creeping  along  the  plain, 

And  turn  with  such  a  careless  scorn  of  men'' 

Back  to  the  mountain's  brow  again, 

And  feel  more  pleased  that  some  small,  fluttering 

thing 

Trusts  me  and  hovers  near  on  fearless  wing, 
Than  if  the  proudest  man  in  all  the  land 
Had  offered  me  in  friendliness  his  hand  ? 


However  small  the  present  creature  man, — 
Ridiculous  imitation  of  the  gods, 
Weak  plagiarism  on  some  completer  world,— 
Yet  we  can  boast  of  that  strong  race  to  be. 
The  savage  broke  the  attraction  which  binds  fast 
The  fibres  of  the  oak,  and  we  to-day 
By  cunning  chemistry  can  force  apart 
The  elements  of  the  air.     That  coming  race 
Shall  loose  the  bands  by  which  the  earth  attracts 
A  drop  of  occult  tincture,  a  spring  touched 
Shall  outwit  gravitation  ;  men  shall  float, 
Or  lift  the  hills  and  set  them  where  they  will. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  2J 

The  savage  crossed  the  lake,  and  we  the  sea. 
That  coming  race  shall  have  no  bounds  or  bars, 
But,  like  the  fledgling  eaglet,  leave  the  nest,— 
Our  earthly  eyrie  up  among  the  stars, — 
And  freely  soar,  to  tread  the  desolate  moon, 
Or  mingle  with  the  neighbor  folk  of  Mars. 
Yea,  if  the  savage  learned  by  sign  and  sound 
To  bridge  the  chasm  to  his  fellow's  brain, 
Till  now  we  flash  our  whispers  round  the  globe, 
That  race  shall  signal  over  the  abyss 
To  those  bright  souls  who  throng  the  outer  courts 
Of  life,  impatient  who  shall  greet  men  first 
And  solve  the  riddles  that  we  die  to  know. 

'Tis  night :  I  sit  alone  among  the  hills. 
There  is  no  sound,  except  the  sleepless  brook, 
Whose  voice  comes  faintly  from  the  depths  below 
Through  the  thick  darkness,  or  the  somber  pines 
That  slumber,  murmuring  sometimes  in  their  dreams. 
Hark  !  on  a  fitful  gust  there  came  the  sound 
Of  the  tide  rising  yonder  on  the  bay. 
It  dies  again  :  'twas  like  the  rustling  noise 
Of  a  great  army  mustering  secretly. 
There  rose  an  owl's  cry,  from  the  woods  below, 
Like  a  lost  spirit's. — Now  all's  still  again. — 


28  THE  HERMIT  A  <,b'.. 

'Tis  almost  fearful  to  sit  here  alone 

And  feel  the  deathly  silence  and  the  dark. 

I  will  arise  and  shout,  and  hear  at  least 

My  own  voice  answer.  — Not  an  echo  even  ! 

I  wish  I  had  not  uttered  that  wild  cry  ; 

It  broke  with  such  a  shock  upon  the  air, 

Whose  leaden  silence  closed  up  after  it, 

And  seemed  to  clap  together  at  my  ears. 

The  black   depths    of   these    muffled   woods    are 

thronged 

With  shapes  that  wait  some  signal  to  swoop  out, 
And  swirl  around  and  madden  me  with  fear. 
I  will  go  climb  that  bare. and  rocky  height 
Into  the  clearer  air. 

So,  here  I  breathe  ; 
That  silent  darkness  smothered  me. 

Away 

Across  the  bay,  the  city  with  its  lights 
Twinkling  against  the  horizon's  dusky  line, 
Looks  a  sea-dragon,  crawled  up  on  the  shore, 
With  rings  of  fire  across  his  rounded  back, 
And  luminous  claws  spread  out  among  the  hills. 
Above,  the  glittering  heavens. — Magnificent ! 
Oh,  if  a  man  could  be  but  as  a  star, 


THE  HERMITAGE.  29 

Having  his  place  appointed,  here  to  rise, 
And  there  to  set,  unchanged  by  earthly  change, 
Content  if  it  can  guide  some  wandering  bark, 
Or  be  a  beacon  to  some  home-sick  soul  ! 

Those  city-lights  again  :  they  draw  my  gaze 
As  if  some  secret  human  sympathy 
Still  held  my  heart  down  from  the  lonely  heaven. 
A  new-born  constellation,  setting  there 
Below  the  Sickle's  ruby-hilted  curve, 

They  gleam Not  so  !     No  constellation  they  ; 

I  mock  the  sad,  strong  stars  that  never  fail 

In  their  eternal  patience  ;  from  below 

Comes  that  pale  glare,  like  the  faint,   sulphurous 

flame 

Which  plays  above  the  ashes  of  a  fire  : 
So  trembles  the  dull  flicker  of  those  lamps 
Over  the  burnt-out  energies  of  man. 
3* 


30  THE  HERMITAGE. 


II 


A  month  since  I  last  laid  my  pencil  down, — 
An  April,  fairer  than  the  Atlantic  June, 
Whose  calendar  of  perfect  days  was  kept 
By  daily  blossoming  of  some  new  flower. 
The  fields,  whose  carpets  now  were  silken  white, 
Next  week  were  orange-velvet,  next,  sea-blue. 
It  was  as  if  some  central  fire  of  bloom, 
From  which  in  other  climes  a  random  root 
Is  now  and  then  shot  up,  here  had  burst  forth 
And  overflowed  the  fields,  and  set  the  land 
Aflame  with  flowers.      I  watched  them  day  by  day, 
How  at  the  dawn  they  wake,  and  open  wide 
Their  little  petal-windows,  how  they  turn 
Their  slender  necks  to  follow  round  the  sun, 
And  how  the  passion  they  express  all  day 
In  burning  color,  steals  forth  with  the  dew 
All  night  in  odor. 

I  have  wandered  much 
These  weeks,  but  everywhere  a  restless  mind 
Has  dogged  me,  like  the  shadow  at  my  heels. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  3! 

Sometimes  I  watched  the  morning  mist  arise, 

Like  an  imprisoned  Genie  from  the  stream, 

And  wished  that  death  would  come  on  me  like  dawn, 

Drawing  the  spirit,  that  white,  vaporous  mist, 

Up  from  this  noisy,  fretted  stream  of  life, 

To  fall  where  God  will,  in  his  bounteous  showers. 

Sometimes  I  walked  at  sunset  on  the  edge 

Of  the  steep  gorge,  and  saw  my  shadow  pace 

Along  a  shadow-wall  across  the  abyss, 

And  felt  that  we,  with  all  our  phantom  deeds, 

Are  but  far-slanted  shadows  of  some  life 

That  walks  between  our  planet  and  its  God. 

All  the  long  nights— those  memory-haunted  nights, 

When  sleepless  conscience  would  not  let  me  sleep, 

But  stung,  and  stung,  and  pointed  to  the  world 

Which  like  a  coward  I  had  left  behind, 

I  watched  the  heavens,  where  week  by  week  the  moon 

Slow  swelled  its  silver  bud,  blossomed  full  gold, 

And  slowly  faded. 


Laid  the  pencil  down — 

Why  not  ?     Are  there  not  books  enough  ?     Is  man 
A  sick  child  that  must  be  amused  by  songs, 
Or  be  made  sicker  with  their  foolish  noise  ? 


32  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Then  illness  came  :  I  should  have  argued,  once, 
That  the  ill  body  gave  me  those  ill  thoughts ; 
But  I  have  learned  that  spirit,  though  it  be 
Subtile,  and  hard  to  trace,  is  mightier 
Than  matter,  and  I  know  the  poisoned  mind 
Poisoned  its  shell.     Three  days  of  fever-fire 
Burned  out  my  strength,  leaving  me  scarcely  power 
To  reach  the  brook's  side  and  my  scanty  food. 
What  would  I  not  have  given  to  hear  the  voice 
Of  some  one  who  would  raise  my  throbbing  head 
And  shade  the  fevering  sun,  and  cool  my  hand 
In  her  moist  palms  !     But  I  lay  there,  alone. 
Blessed  be  sickness,  which  cuts  down  our  pride 
And  bares  our  helplessness.    I  have  had  new  thoughts. 
I  think  the  fever  burned  away  some  lies 
Which  clogged  the  truthful  currents  of  the  brain. 
Am  I  quite  happy  here  ?     Have  I  the  right, 
As  wholly  independent,  to  scorn  men  ? 
What  do  I  owe  them — self?     Should  I  be  I, 
Born  in  these  hills  ?     A  savage  rather  !     Food, 
The  sailor-bread  ?     Yes,  that  took  mill  and  men  : 
Yet  flesh  and  fowl  are  free  ;  but  powder  and  gun — 
Wrhat  human  lives  went  to  the  making  of  them  ? 
I  am  dependent  as  the  villager 
Who  lives  by  the  white  wagon's  daily  round. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  33 

i 

Yea,  better  feed  uppn  the  ox,  to  which 

The  knife  is  mercy  after  slavery, 

Than  kill  the  innocent  birds,  and  trustful  deer 

Whose  big  blue  eyes  have  almost  human  pain ; 

That's  murder  1 

I  scorned  books  :  to  those  same  books 
I  owe  the  power  to  scorn  them. 

I  despised 

Men  :  from  themselves  I  drew  the  pure  ideal 
By  which  to  measure  them. 

At  woman's  love 

I  laughed  :  but  to  that  love  I  owe 
The  hunger  for  a  more  abiding  love. 
Their  nestlings  in  our  hearts  leave  vacant  there 
These  hollow  places,  like  a  lark's  round  nest 
Left  empty  in  the  grass,  and  filled  with  flowers. 

What  do  I  here  alone  ?     'Twas  not  so  strange,  , 
Weary  of  discords,  that  I  chose  to  hear 
The  one,  clear,  perfect  note  of  solitude ; 
But  now  it  plagues  the  ear,  that  one  shrill  note  : 
Give  me  the  chords  back,  even  though  some  ring  false. 

Unmarried  to  the  steel,  the  flint  is  cold  : 
Strike  one  to  the  other,  and  they  wake  in  fire. 


34  THE  HERMITAGE. 

A  solitary  fagot  will  not  burn  : 
Bring  two,  and  cheerily  the  flame  ascends. 
Alone,  man  is  a  lifeless  stone  ;  or  lies 
A  charring  ember,  smouldering  into  ash. 


If  the  man  riding  yonder  looks  a  speck, 
The  town  an  ant-hill,  that  is  but  the  trick 
Of  our  perspective  :  wisdom  merely  means 
Correction  of  the  angles  at  the  eye. 
I  hold  my  hand  up,  so,  before  my  face,— 
It  blots  ten  miles  of  country,  and  a  town. 
This  little  lying  lens,  that  twists  the  rays, 
So  cheats  the  brain  that  My  house,  My  affairs, 
My  hunger,  or  My  happiness,  My  ache, 
And  My  religion,  fill  immensity  ! 
Yours  merely  dot  the  landscape  casually. 
'Tis  well  God  does  not  measure  a  man's  worth 
By  the  image  on  his  neighbor's  retina. 

I  am  alone  :  the  birds  care  not  for  me, 
Except  to  sing  a  little  farther  off, 
With  looks  that  say,  ''What  does  this  fellow  here?" 
The  loud  brook  babbles  only  for  the  flowers  : 
The  mountain  and  the  forest  take  me  not 
Into  their  meditations  ;  I  disturb 


THE  HERMITAGE.  35 

Their  silence,  as  a  child  that  drags  his  toy 

Across  a  chapel's  porch.     The  viewless  ones 

Who  flattered  me  to  claim  their  company 

By  gleams  of  thought  they  tossed  to  me  for  alms, 

About  their  grander  matters  turn,  nor  deign 

To  notice  me,  unless  it  were  to  say — 

As  we  put  off  a  troublesome  child — "There,  go  ! 

Men  are  your  fellows,  go  and  mate  with  them  !" 


If  I  could  find  one  soul  that  would  not  lie, 
I  would  go  back,  and  we  would  arm  our  hands, 
And  strike  at  every  ugly  weed  that  stands 

In  God's  wide  garden  of  the  world,  and  try, 
Obedient  to  the  Gardener's  commands, 

To  set  some  smallest  flowers  before  we  die. 

One  such  I  had  found, — 
But  she  was  bound, 
Fettered  and  led,  bid  for  and  sold, 
Chained  to  a  stone  by  a  ring  of  gold. 

In  a  stony  sense  the  stone  loved  her,  too  : 
Between  our  places  the  river  was  broad, 
Should  she  tread  on  a  broken  heart  to  go  through- 


36  THE  HERMITAGE. 

Could  she  put  a  man's  life  in  mid-stream  to  be  trod, 
To  come  over  dry-shod  ? 


Shame  !  that  a  man  with  hand  and  brain 
Should,  like  a  love-lorn  girl,  complain, 
Rhyming  his  dainty  woes  anew, 
When  there  is  honest  work  to  do  ! 

What  work,  what  work  ?     Is  God  not  wise 

To  rule  the  world  He  could  devise  ? 

Yet  see  thou,  though  the  realm  be  His, 

He  governs  it  by  deputies. 

Enough  to  know  of  Chance  and  Luck, 

The  stroke  we  choose  to  strike  is  struck  ; 

The  deed  we  slight  will  slighted  be, 

In  spite  of  all  Necessity. 

The  Parcae's  web  of  good  and  ill 

They  weave  with  human  shuttles  still, 

And  fate  is  fate  through  man's  free  will. 

With  sullen  thoughts  that  smoulder  hour  by  hour, 
In  vague  expectancy  of  help  or  hope 
Which  still  eludes  my  brain,  waiting  I  sit 
Like  a  blind  beggar  at  a  palace-gate, 


THE  HERMITAGE.  37 

Who  hears  the  rustling  past  of  silks,  and  airs 

Of  costly  odor  mock  him  blowing  by, 

And  feels  within  a  dull  and  aching  wish 

That  the  proud  wall  would  let  some  coping  down 

To  crush  him  dead,  and  let  him  have  his  rest. 

No  help  from  men  :  they  could  not,  if  they  would. 
And  God  ?     He  lets  his  world  be  wrung  with  pain. 
No  help  at  all  then  ?     Let  life  be  in  vain  : 
To  get  no  help  is  surely  greatest  gain  ; 
To  taunt  the  hunger  down  is  sweetest  food. 


O  mocker,  Memory  !     From  what  floating  cloud, 
Or  from  what  witchery  of  the  haunted  wood, 
Or  faintest  perfumes,  softly  drifting  through 
The  lupines'  lattice-bars  of  white  and  blue, 
Steals  back  upon  my  soul  this  weaker  mood  ? 
My  heart  is  dreaming ; — in  a  shadowy  room 
I  breathe  the  vague  scent  of  a  jasmin-bloom 
That  floats  on  waves  of  music,  softer  played, 
Till  song  and  odor  all  the  brain  pervade ; 
Swiftly  across  my  cheek  there  sweeps  the  thrill 
Of  burning  lips, — then  all  is  hushed  and  still  ; 
And  round  the  vision  in  unearthly  awe 
Deeps  of  enchanted  starlight  seem  to  draw, 
4 


38  THE  HERMITAGE. 

In  which  my  soul  sinks,  falling  noiselessly, — 
As  from  a  lone  ship,  far-off,  in  the  night, 
Out  of  a  child's  hand  slips  a  pebble  white, 
Glimmering  and  fading  down  the  awful  sea. 


That  night,  which  pushed  me  out  of  Paradise, 
When  the  last  guest  had  taken  his  mask  of  smiles 
And  gone,  she  wheeled  a  sofa  from  the  light 
Where  I  sat  touching  the  piano-keys, 
And  begged  me  play  her  weariness  away. 
I  played  all  sweet  and  solemn  airs  I  knew, 
And  when,  with  music  mesmerized,  she  slept, 
I  made  the  deep  chords  tell  her  dreams  my  love. 
Once,  when  they  grew  too  passionate,  I  saw 
The  faint  blush  ripen  in  their  glow,  and  chide 
Even  in  dreams,  the  rash,  tumultuous  thought. 
Then  when  I  made  them  say, "  Sleep  on,  dream  on, 
For  now  we  are  together  ;  when  thou  wak'st 
Forevermore  we  are  alone — alone, " 
She  sighed  in  sleep,  and  waked  not :  then  I  rose, 
And  softly  stooped  my  head,  and,  half  in  awe, 
Half  passion-rapt,  I  kissed  her  lips  farewell. 

—  Only  the  meek-mouthed  blossoms  kiss  I  now, 
Or  the  cold  cheek  that  sometimes  comes  at  night 
In  haunted  dreams,  and  brushes  past  my  own. 


THE  HERMITAGE.  39 

Ah.  what  hast  thou  to  do  with  me,  sweet  song — 
Why  hauntest  thou  and  vexest  so  my  dreams  ? 

Have  I  not  turned  away  from  thee  so  long — 
So  long,  and  yet  the  starry  midnight  seems 

Astir  with  tremulous  music,  as  of  old, — 

Forbidden  memories  opening,  fold  on  fold  ? 

O  ghost  of  Love,  why,  with  thy  rose-leaf  lips, 
Dost  thou  still  mock  my  sleep  with  kisses  warm, 

Torturing  my  dreams  with  touching  finger-tips, 
That  madden  me  to  clasp  thy  phantom  form  ? 

Have  I  not  earned,  by  all  these  tears,  at  last, 

The  right  to  rest  untroubled  by  that  Past  ? 


Unto  thy  patient  heart,  my  mother  Earth, 
I  come,  a  weary  child. 

I  have  no  claim,  save  that  thou  gav'st  me  birth, 
And  hast  sustained  me  with  thy  nurture  mild. 
I  have  stood  up  alone,  these  many  years  ; 
Now  let  me  come  and  lie  upon  my  face, 
And  spread  my  hands  among  the  dewy  grass, 
Till  the  slow  wind's  mesmeric  touches  pass 
Above  my  brain,  and  all  its  throbbing  chase ; 
Into  thy  bosom  take  these  bitter  tears, 


40  THE  HERMITAGE. 

And  let  them  seem  unto  the  innocent  flowers 

Only  as  dew,  or  heaven's  gentle  showers  ; 

Till,  quieted  and  hushed  against  thy  breast, 

I  can  forget  to  weep, 

And  sink  at  last  to  sleep,— 

Long  sleep  and  rest. 


Her  face  ! 

It  must  have  been  her  face, — 
No  other  one  was  ever  half  so  fair, — 
No  other  head  e'er  bent  with  such  meek  grace 
Beneath  that  weight  of  beautiful  blonde  hair. 
In  a  carriage  on  the  street  of  the  town, 
Where  I  had  strayed  in  walking  from  the  bay, 
Just  as  the  sun  was  going  down, 
Shielding  her  sight  from  his  latest  ray, 
She  sat,  and  scanned  with  eager  eye 
The  faces  of  the  passers-by. 
Whom  was  she  looking  for  ?     Not  me — 
Yet  what  wild  purpose  can  it  be 
That  tempted  her  to  this  wild  land  ? 
— I  marked  that  on  her  lifted  hand 
The  diamonds  no  longer  shine 
Of  the  ring  that  meant,  not  mine — not  mine  ! 


THE  HERMITAGE.  41 

Ah  fool — fool — fool !  crawl  back  to  thy  den, 
Like  a  wounded  beast  as  thou  art,  again  ; 
Whosever  she  be,  not  thine — not  thine  ! 

I  sat  last  night  on  yonder  ridge  of  rocks 
To  see  the  sun  set  over  Tamelpais, 
Whose  tented  peak,  suffused  with  rosy  mist, 
Blended  the  colors  of  the  sea  and  sky 
And  made  the  mountain  one  great  amethyst 
Hanging  against  the  sunset. 

In  the  west 

There  lay  two  clouds  which  parted  company, 
Floating  like  two  soft-breasted  swans,  and  sailed 
Farther  and  farther  separate,  till  one  stayed 
To  make  a  mantle  for  the  evening-star  ; 
The  other  wept  itself  away  in  rain. 
A  fancy  seized  me  ; — if,  in  other  worlds, 
That  Spirit  from  afar  should  call  to  me, 
Across  some  starry  chasm  impassable, 
Weeping,  * '  Oh,  hadst  thou  only  come  to  me  ! — 
I  loved  you  so  ! — I  prayed  each  night  that  God 
Would  send  you  to  me  !     Now,  alas  !  too  late, 
Too  late— farewell !"  and  still  again,   "  farewell  !" 
Like  the  pulsation  of  a  silenced  bell 
Whose  sobs  beat  on  within  the  brain. 


42  THE  HERMITAGE. 

I  rose, 

And  smote  my  staff  strongly  against  the  ground, 
And  set  my  face  homeward,  and  set  my  heart 
Firm  in  a  passionate  purpose  :  there,  in  haste, 
With  that  one  echo  goading  me  to  speed, 
"  If  it  should  be  too  late— if  it  should  be 
Too  late — too  late !"  I  took  a  pen  and  wrote  : 

"  Dear  Soul,  if  I  am  mad  to  speak  to  thee, 
And  this  faint  glimmer  which  I  call  a  hope 
Be  but  the  corpse-light  on  the  grave  of  hope — 
If  thou,  O  darling  Star,  art  in  the  West 
To  be  my  Evening-star,  and  watch  my  day 
Fade  slowly  into  desolate  twilight,  burn 
This  folly  in  the  flames  ;  and  scattered  with 
Its  ashes,  let  my  madness  be  forgot. 
But  if  not  so,  oh  be  my  Morning-star, 
And  crown  my  East  with  splendor  :  come  to  me  !" 

A  stern,  wild,  broken  place  for  a  man  to  walk 
And  muse  on  broken  fortunes ;  a  rare  place, — 
There  in  the  Autumn  weather,  cool  and  still, 
With  the  warm  sunshine  clinging  round  the  rocks 
Softly,  in  pity,  like  a  woman's  love, — 
To  wait  for  some  one  who  can  never  come — 


THE  HERMITAGE.  43 

As  a  man  there  was  waiting.     Overhead 
A  happy  bird  sang  quietly  to  himself, 
Unconscious  of  such  sombre  thoughts  below, 
To  which  the  song  was  background  : — 

"  Yet  how  men 

Sometimes  will  struggle,  writhe,  and  scream  at  death  ! 
It  were  so  easy  now,  in  the  mild  air, 
To  close  the  senses,  slowly  sleep,  and  die  ; 
To  cease  to  be  the  shaped  and  definite  cloud, 
And  melt  away  into  the  fathomless  blue  ; — 
Only  to  touch  this  crimson  thread  of  life, 
Whose  steady  ripple  pulses  in  my  wrist, 
And  watch  the  little  current  soak  the  grass, 
Till  the  haze  came,  then  darkness,  and  then  rest. 
Would  God  be  angry  if  I  stopped  one  life 
Among  his  myriads — such  a  worthless  one  ? 
If  I  should  pray,  I  wonder  would  he  send 
An  angel  down  out  of  that  great,  white  cloud, 
(He  surely  could  spare  one  from  praising  Him, ) 
To  tell  if  there  is  any  better  way 

Than Look  !    Why,  that  is  grand,  now  !     (Am 

I  mad  ? 

I  did  not  think  I  should  go  mad  !)     That's  grand — 
One  of  the  blessed  spirits  come  like  this 


44  THE  HERMITAGE. 

To  meet  a  poor,  lean  man  among  the  rocks, 
And  answer  questions  for  him  ?" 

There  she  stood, 

With  blonde  hair  blowing  back,  as  if  the  breeze 
Blew  a  light  out  of  it,  that  ever  played 
And  hovered  at  her  shoulders.     Such  blue  eyes 
Mirrored  the  dreamy  mountain  distances, — 
(Yet,  are  the  angels'  faces  thin  and  wan 
Like  that ;  and  do  they  have  such  mouths,  so  drawn, 
As  if  a  sad  song,  some  sad  time,  had  died 
Upon  the  lips,  and  left  its  echo  there  ?) 

And  the  man  rose,  and  stood  with  folded  hands 
And  head  bent,  and  his  downcast  looks  in  awe 
Touching  her  garment's  hem,  that,  when  she  spoke, 
Trembled  a  little  where  it  met  her  feet. 


"I  am  come,  because  you  called  to  me  to  come. 
What  were  all  other  voices  when  I  heard 
The  voice  of  my  own  soul's  soul  call  to  me? 
You  knew  I  loved  you — oh,  you  must  have  known  1 
Was  it  a  noble  thing  to  do,  you  think, 
To  leave  a  lonely  girl  to  die  down  there 


THE  HERMITAGE.  45 

In  the  great  empty  world,  and  come  up  here 
To  make  a  martyr's  pillar  of  your  pride  ? 
There  has  been  nobler  work  done,  there  in  the  world, 
Than  you  have  done  this  year  1" 

Then  cried  the  man  : 

' '  O  voice  that  I  have  prayed  for — O  sad  voice, 
And  woful  eyes,  spare  me  if  I  have  sinned  ! 
There  was  a  little  ring  you  used  to  wear  — 

' '  O  strange,  wild  Fates,  that  balance  bliss  and  woe 
On  such  poor  straws  !     It  was  a  brother's  gift. " 

"You  never  told  me — " 

"  Did  you  ever  ask  ?" 
"You,  too,  were  surely  prouder  then  than  now  !" 

"  Dear,  I  am  sadder  now  :  the  head  must  bend 
A  little,  when  one's  weeping. " 

Then  the  man, — 

While  half  his  mind,  bewildered,  at  a  flash 
Took  in  the  wide,  lone  place,  the  singing  bird, 
The  sunshine  streaming  past  them  like  a  wind, 
And  the  broad  tree  that  moved  as  tho'  it  breathed  : 


46  THE  HERMITAGE. 

"Oh,  if  'tis  possible  that  in  the  world 
There  lies  some  low,  mean  work  for  me  to  do, 
Let  me  go  there  alone  :  I  am  ashamed 
To  wear  life's  crown  when  I  flung  down  its  sword. 
Crammed  full  of  pride,  and  lust,  and  littleness, 
O  God,  I  am  not  worthy  of  thy  gifts  ! 
Let  me  find  penance,  till,  years  hence,  perchance, 
Made  pure  by  toil,  and  scourged  with  pain  and 
prayer — 

Then  a  voice  answered  thro'  His  creature's  lips — 
"God  asks  no  penance  but  a  better  life. 
He  purifies  by  pain — He  only  ;  'tis 
A  remedy  too  dangerous  for  our 
Blind  pharmacy.      Lo  !  we  have  tried  that  way, 
And  borne  what  fruit,  or  blossoms  even,  save  one 
Poor  passion-flower  !     Come,  take  thy  happiness  ; 
In  happy  hearts  are  all  the  sunbeams  forged 
That  brighten  up  our  weatherbeaten  world. 
Comeback  with  me — Come  !  for  I  love  you — Come  !" 


If  it  was  not  a  dream  :  perchance  it  was — 
Often  it  seems  so,  and  I  wonder  when 


THE  HERMITAGE.  47 

I  shall  awaken  on  the  mountain-side, 
With  a  little  bitter  taste  left  in  the  mouth 
Of  too  much  sleep,  or  too  much  happiness, 
And  sigh,  and  wish  that  I  might  dream  again. 


II 

SUNDOWN. 

A  SEA  of  splendor  in  the  West, 
Purple,  and  pearl,  and  gold, 
With  milk-white  ships  of  cloud,  whose  sails 
Slowly  the  winds  unfold. 


Brown  cirrus-bars,  like  ribbed  beach-sand, 

Cross  the  blue  upper  dome  ; 
And  nearer  flecks  of  feathery  white 

Blow  over  them  like  foam. 


But  when  that  transient  glory  dies 

Into  the  twilight  gray, 
And  leaves  me  on  the  beach  alone 

Beside  the  glimmering  bay ; 


SUNDOWN.  49 

And  when  I  know  that,  late  or  soon, 

Love's  glory  finds  a  grave, 
And  hearts  that  danced  like  dancing  foam 

Break  like  the  breaking  wave  ; 


A  little  dreary,  homeless  thought 

Creeps  sadly  over  me, 
Like  the  shadow  of  a  lonely  cloud 

Moving  along  the  sea. 


Ill 

THE  ARCH. 

JUST  where  the  street  of  the  village  ends, 
Over  the  road  an  oak-tree  tall, 
Curving  in  more  than  a  crescent,  bends 

With  an  arch  like  the  gate  of  a  Moorish  wall. 


Over  across  the  river  there, 

Looking  under  the  arch,  one  sees 

The  sunshine  slant  through  the  distant  air, 
And  burn  on  the  cliff  and  the  tufted  trees. 


Each  day,  hurrying  through  the  town, 

I  stop  an  instant,  early  or  late, 
As  I  cross  the  street,  and  glancing  down 

I  catch  a  glimpse  through  the  Moorish  gate. 


THE  ARGIL  51 

Only  a  moment  there  I  stand, 

But  I  look  through  that  loop  in  the  dusty  air, 
Into  a  far-off'fairy  land, 

Where  all  seems  calm,  and  kind,  and  fair. 


So  sometimes  at  the  end  of  a  thought, 
Where  with  a  vexing  doubt  we've  striven, 

A  sudden,  sunny  glimpse  is  caught 

Of  an  open  arch,  and  a  peaceful  heaven. 


IV 
APRIL  IN   OAKLAND.* 

T  T  7  AS  there  last  night  a  snow-storm  ?- 

y  *      So  thick  the  orchards  stand, 
With  drift  on  drift  of  blossom-flakes 
Whitening  all  the  land. 


Or  have  the  waves  of  life  that  swelled 
The  green  buds,  day  by  day, 

Broken  at  once  in  clinging  foam 
And  scattered  odor-spray  ? 


The  wind  comes  drowsy  with  the  breath 

Of  cherry  and  of  pear, 
Sighing  their  perfume-laden  wings 

No  more  of  sweet  can  bear. 

*  California. 


APEIL  IN   OAKLAND.  53 

Over  the  garden-gateway 

That  parts  the  tufted  hedge, 
Rimming  the  idly-twinkling  bay 

Sleeps  the  blue  mountains'  edge. 

Yon  fleece  of  clouds  in  heaven, 

So  delicate  and  fair, 
Seems  a  whole  league  of  orchard-bloom 

Sailing  along  the  air. 

Oh,  loveliness  of  nature  ! 

Oh,  sordid  minds  of  men  ! 
Without,  a  world  of  bloom  and  balm — 

A.  sour,  sad  soul  within. 

O  winds  that  sweep  the  orchard 

With  Orient  spices  sweet, 
Why  bring  ye  with  that  desolate  sound 

The  dead  leaves  to  my  feet  ? 

Ah,  sweeter  were  the  fragrance 

That  I  to-day  have  found, 
If  last  year's  crumbled  leaves  of  love 

Were  buried  under  ground  ; 


54  APRIL   IN   OAKLAND. 

And  fairer  were  the  shadow  troops 
That  fleck  the  distant  hill, 

If  shades  of  clouds  that  will  not  pass 
Dimmed  not  my  memory  still. 


Better  than  all  the  beauty 

Which  cloud  or  blossom  shows, 

Is  the  blue  sky  that  arches  all 
With  measureless  repose. 

And  better  than  the  bright  blue  sky, 

To  know  that  far  away 
Sweeps  all  the  silent  host  of  stars 

Behind  the  veil  of  day. 

And  best  to  feel  that  there  and  here, 

About  us  and  above, 
Move  on  the  purposes  of  God 

In  justice  and  in  love. 


V 

EASTERN  WINTER. 

QLD — cold— the  very  sun  looks  cold, 

With  those  thin  rays  of  chilly  gold 
Laid  on  that  gap  of  bluish  sky 
That  glazes  like  a  dying  eye. 


The  naked  trees  are  shivering, 
Each  cramped  and  bare  branch  quivering, 
Cutting  the  bleak  wind  into  blades, 
Whose  edge  to  brain  and  bone  invades. 

That  hard  ground  seems  to  ache,  all  day, 
Even  for  a  sheet  of  snow,  to  lay 
Upon  its  icy  feet  and  knees, 
Stretched  stiffly  there  to  freeze  and  freeze. 


56  EASTERN   WINTER. 

And  yon  shrunk  mortal — what's  within 
That  nipped  and  winter-shrivelled  skin  ? 
The  pinched  face  drawn  in  peevish  lines, 
The  voice  that  through  his  blue  lips  whines, 


The  frost  has  got  within,  you  see,  — 
Left  but  a  selfish  me  and  me  : 
The  heart  is  chilled,  its  nerves  are  numb, 
And  love  has  long  been  frozen  dumb. 


Ah,  give  me  back  the  clime  I  know, 

Where  all  the  year  geraniums  blow, 

And  hyacinth-buds  bloom  white  for  snow  ; 


Where  hearts  beat  warm  with  life's  delight, 
Through  radiant  winter's  sunshine  bright, 
And  summer's  starry  deeps  of  night  ; 


Where  man  may  let  earth's  beauty  thaw 
The  wintry  creed  which  Calvin  saw, 
That  God  is  only  Power  and  Law ; 


SLEEPING.  57 

And  out  of  Nature's  bible  prove, 
That  here  below  as  there  above 
Our  Maker — Father — God — is  Love. 


VI 
SLEEPING. 

HUSHED  within  her  quiet  bed 
She  is  lying,  all  the  night, 
In  her  pallid  robe  of  white, 
Eyelids  on  the  pure  eyes  pressed, 
Soft  hands  folded  on  the  breast, — 
And  you  thought  I  meant  it — dead  ? 

Nay  !  I  smile  at  your  shocked  face  : 
In  the  morning  she  will  wake, 
Turn  her  dreams  to  sport,  and  make 
All  the  household  glad  and  gay, 
Yet  for  many  a  merry  day, 

With  her  beauty  and  her  grace. 


58  SLEEPING. 

But  some  Summer  'twill  be  said — 
"She  is  lying,  all  the  night, 
In  her  pallid  robe  of  white, 
Eyelids  on  the  tired  eyes  pressed, 
Hands  that  cross  upon  the  breast  :" 
We  shall  understand  it — dead  ! 


Yet  'twill  only  be  a  sleep  : 

When,  with  songs  and  dewy  light, 
Morning  blossoms  out  of  Night, 
She  will  open  her  blue  eyes 
'Neath  the  palms  of  Paradise, 

While  we  foolish  ones  shall  weep. 


VII 
STARLIGHT. 

THEY  think  me  daft,  who  nightly  meet 
My  face  turned  starward,  while  my  feet 
Stumble  along  the  unseen  street ; 

But  should  man's  thoughts  have  only  room 
For  Earth,  his  cradle  and  his  tomb, 
Not  for  his  Temple's  grander  gloom  ? 

And  must  the  prisoner  all  his  days 
Learn  but  his  dungeon's  narrow  ways 
And  never  through  its  grating  gaze  ? 

Then  let  me  linger  in  your  sight, 

My  only  amaranths  !  blossoming  bright 

As  over  Eden's  cloudless  night. 


60  STARLIGHT. 

The  same  vast  belt,  and  square,  and  crown, 
That  on  the  Deluge  glittered  down, 
And  lit  the  roofs  of  Bethlehem  town  ! 

Ye  make  me  one  with  all  my  race, 
A  victor  over  time  and  space, 
Till  all  the  path  of  men  I  pace. 

Far-speeding  backward  in  my  brain 
We  build  the  Pyramids  again, 
And  Babel  rises  from  the  plain  ; 

And  climbing  upward  on  your  beams 
I  peer  within  the  Patriarch's  dreams, 
Till  the  deep  sky  with  angels  teems. 

My  Comforters  ! — Yea,  why  not  mine  ? 
The  power  that  kindled  you  doth  shine, 
In  man,  a  mastery  divine  ; 

That  Love  which  throbs  in  every  star, 
And  quickens  all  the  worlds  afar, 
Beats  warmer  where  his  children  are. 


STAELIGHT.  6 1 

The  shadow  of  the  wings  of  Death 
Broods  over  us  ;  we  feel  his  breath  : 
"Resurgam,"  still  the  spirit  saith. 

These  tired  feet,  this  weary  brain, 
Blotted  with  many  a  mortal  stain, 
May  crumble  earthward — not  in  vain. 

With  swifter  feet  that  shall  not  tire, 
Eyes  that  shall  fail  not  at  your  fire, 
Nearer  your  splendors  I  aspire. 
6 


VIII 
A  DEAD  BIRD  IN  WINTER. 

THE  cold,  hard  sky  and  hidden  sun, 
The  stiffened  trees  that  shiver  so, 
With  bare  twigs  naked  every  one 

To  these  harsh  winds  that  freeze  the  snow,- 


It  was  a  bitter  place  to  die, 

Poor  birdie  !     Was  it  easier,  then, 
On  such  a  world  to  shut  thine  eye, 

And  sleep  away  from  life,  than  when 


The  apple-blossoms  tint  the  air, 
And,  twittering  in  the  sunny  trees, 

Thy  fellow-songsters  flit  and  pair, 

Breasting  the  warm,  caressing  breeze  ? 


A   DEAD   BIRD   IN    WINTER.  63 

Nay,  it  were  easiest,  I  feel, 

Though  'twere  a  brighter  Earth  to  lose, 
To  let  the  summer  shadows  steal 

About  thee,  bringing  their  repose  ; 

When  the  noon  hush  was  on  the  air, 

And  on  the  flowers  the  warm  sun  shined, 

And  Earth  seemed  all  so  sweet  and  fair, 
That  He  who  made  it  must  be  kind. 

So  I,  too,  could  not  bear  to  go 

From  Life  in  this  unfriendly  clime, 

To  lie  beneath  the  crusted  snow, 

When  the  dead  grass  stands  stiff  with  rime  ; 

But  under  those  blue  skies  of  home, 

Far  easier  were  it  to  lie  down, 
Where  the  perpetual  violets  bloom, 

And  the  rich  moss  grows  never  brown  ; 

Where  linnets  never  cease  to  build 

Their  nests,  in  boughs  that  always  wave 

To  odorous  airs,  with  blessing  filled 

From  nestled  blossoms  round  my  grave. 


IX 

SPRING  TWILIGHT. 

SINGING  in  the  rain,  robin  ? 
Rippling  out  so  fast 
All  thy  flute-like  notes,  as  if 
This  singing  were  thy  last ! 

After  sundown,  too,  robin  ? 

Though  the  fields  are  dim, 
And  the  trees  grow  dark  and  still, 

Dripping  from  leaf  and  limb. 


'Tis  heart-broken  music — 
That  sweet,  faltering  strain, — 

Like  a  mingled  memory, 
Half  ecstasy,  half  pain. 


SPRING    TWILIGHT.  65 

Surely  thus  to  sing,  robin, 

Thou  must  have  in  sight 
Beautiful  skies  behind  the  shower, 

And  dawn  beyond  the  night. 


Would  thy  faith  were  mine,  robin  ! 

Then,  though  night  were  long, 
All  its  silent  hours  should  melt 

Their  sorrow  into  song. 
6* 


X 

EVENING. 

THE  Sun  is  gone  :  those  glorious  chariot-wheels 
Have  sunk  their  broadening  spokes  of  flame, 

and  left 

Thin  rosy  films  wimpled  across  the  West, 
Whose  last  faint  tints  melt  slowly  in  the  blue, 
As  the  last  trembling  cadence  of  a  song 
Fades  into  silence  sweeter  than  all  sound. 


Now  the  first  stars  begin  to  tremble  forth 
Like  the  first  instruments  of  an  orchestra 
Touched  softly,  one  by  one. — There  in  the  East 
Kindles  the  glory  of  moonrise  :  how  its  waves 
Break  in  a  surf  of  silver  on  the  clouds  ! — 
White,  motionless  clouds,  like  soft  and  snowy  wings 
Which  the  great  Earth  spreads,  sailing  round  the  Sun. 


EVENING.  67 

O  silent  stars  !  that  over  ages  past 
Have  shone  serenely  as  ye  shine  to-night, 
Unseal,  unseal  the  secret  that  ye  keep  ! 
Is  it  not  time  to  tell  us  why  we  live  ? 
Through  all  these  shadowy  corridors  of  years, 
(Like  some  gray  Priest,  who  through  the  Mysteries 
Led  the  blindfolded  Neophyte  in  fear, ) 
Time  leads  us  blindly  onward,  till  in  wrath 
Tired  Life  would  seize  and  throttle  its  stern  guide, 
And  force  him  tell  us  whither  and  how  long. 
But  Time  gives  back  no  answer — only  points 
With  motionless  finger  to  eternity, 
Which  deepens  over  us,  as  that  deep  sky — 
Darkens  above  me  :  only  its  vestibule 
Glimmers  with  scattered  stars  ;  and  down  the  West 
A  silent  meteor  slowly  slides  afar, 
As  though,  pacing  the  garden-walks  of  heaven, 
Some  musing  seraph  had  let  fall  a  flower. 


XI 
THE   ORGAN. 

IT  is  no  harmony  of  human  making, 
Though  men  have  built  those  pipes  of  bur- 
nished gold ; 

Their  music,  out  of  Nature's  heart  awaking, 
Forever  new,  forever  is  of  old. 


Man  makes  not — only  finds — all  earthly  beauty, 
Catching  a  thread  of  sunshine  here  and  there, 

Some  shining  pebble  in  the  path  of  duty, 
Some  echo  of  the  songs  that  flood  the  air. 


That  prelude  is  a  wind  among  the  willows, 
Rising  until  it  meets  the  torrent's  roar  ; 

Now  a  wild  ocean,  beating  his  great  billows 
Among  the  hollow  caverns  of  the  shore. 


THE   ORGAN.  69 

It  is  the  voice  of  some  vast  people,  pleading 

For  justice  from  an  ancient  shame  and  wrong, — 

The  tramp  of  God's  avenging  armies,  treading 
With  shouted  thunders  of  triumphant  song. 


O  soul,  that  sittest  chanting  dreary  dirges, 
Couldst  thou  but  rise  on  some  divine  desire, 

As  those  deep  chords  upon  their  swelling  surges 
Bear  up  the  wavering  voices  of  the  choir  ! 


But  ever  lurking  in  the  heart,  there  lingers 
The  trouble  of  a  false  and  jarring  tone, 

As  some  great  Organ  which  unskilful  fingers 
Vex  into  discords  when  the  Master's  gone. 


XII 
A  MEMORY. 

UPON  the  barren,  lonely  hill 
We  sat  to  watch  the  sinking  sun  ; 
Below,  the  land  grew  dim  and  still, 

Whose  evening  shadow  had  begun. 
Her  finger  parted  the  shut  book, — 

At  Aylmer's  Field  the  leaf  was  turned — 
Round  her  meek  head  and  sainted  look 

The  sunset  like  a  halo  burned. 
She  knew  not  that  I  watched  her  face — 

Her  spirit  through  her  eyes  was  gone 
To  some  far-off  and  Sabbath  place, 

And  left  me  gazing  there  alone. 
Could  she  have  known,  that  quiet  hour, 

What  ghosts  her  presence  raised  in  me, 
What  graves  were  opened  by  the  power 

Of  that  unconscious  witchery, 


A    MEMORY.  71 

She  would  not  thus  have  sat  and  seen 

The  bird  that  balanced  far  below 
On  the  blue  air,  and  watched  the  sheen 

Along  his  broad  wings  come  and  go. 
For  was  she  not  another's  bride  ? 

And  I — what  right  had  I  to  feast 
Upon  those  eyes  in  revery  wide, 

With  hungering  gaze  like  famished  beast  ? 
Was  it  before  my  fate  I  knelt — 

The  human  fate,  the  mighty  law — 
To  hunger  for  the  heart  I  felt, 

And  love  the  lovely  face  I  saw  ? 
Or  was  it  only  that  the  brow, 

Or  some  sweet  trick  of  hand  or  tone, 
Brought  from  the  Past  to  haunt  me  now 

Her  ghost  whose  love  was  mine  alone  ? 
I  know  not ;  but  we  went  to  rest 

That  eve,  from  songs  that  haunt  me  still, 
And  all  night  long,  in  visions  blest, 

I  walked  with  angels  on  the  hill. 


XIII 
LOST  LOVE. 

BURY  it,  and  sift 
Dust  upon  its  light, 
Death  must  not  be  left 
To  offend  the  sight. 


Cover  the  old  love — 

Weep  not  on  the  mound- 
Grass  shall  grow  above, 

Lilies  spring  around. 


Can  we  fight  the  law, 

Can  our  natures  change — 
Half-way  through  withdraw — 

Other  lives  exchange  ? 


LOST  LOVE.  73 

You  and  I  must  do 

As  the  world  has  done, 
There  is  nothing  new 

Underneath  the  sun. 


Fill  the  grave  up  full — 
Put  the  dead  love  by — 

Not  that  men  are  dull, 
Not  that  women  lie, — 


But  'tis  well  and  right — 
Safest,  you  will  find — 

That  the  Out  of  Sight 
Should  be  Out  of  Mind. 


XIV 

INFLUENCES. 

FROM  the  scarlet  sea  of  sunset, 
Tossing  up  its  waves  of  fire 
To  a  floating  spray  of  splendor, 
Kindles  through  me  mad  desire 
Now — now — now  to  call  her  mine  ! 

From  the  ashen  gray  of  twilight 
Musings  dark  as  shadows  linger — 

Slowly  creeping,  leave  me  weeping — 
While  in  silence  round  my  finger 
That  long  glossy  lock  I  twine. 

From  the  holy  hush  of  starlight 
Sinks  a  peace  upon  my  spirit, 

And  a  voice  of  hope  and  patience — 
All  the  quiet  night  I  hear  it — 

Whispers,  "  Wait,  for  she  is  thine  !" 


XV 
A   DAILY   MIRACLE. 

JUNE'S  sunshine  on  the  broad  porch  shines 
Through  tangled  curtains  of  crossing  vines ; 
The  restless  dancing  of  the  leaves 
Dusky  webs  of  shadow  weaves, 
That  wander  on  the  oaken  floor, 
Or  cross  the  threshold  of  the  door. 
Scattered  where'er  their  mazes  run 
Lie  little  phantoms  of  the  sun  : 
Whatever  chink  the  sunbeam  found, 
Crooked  or  narrow,  on  the  ground 
The  shadowy  image  still  is  round. 


76  A   DAILY  MIEACLE. 

So  the  image  of  God  in  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Which  truth  makes,  rifting  as  it  can 
Through  the  narrow  crooked  ways 
Of  our  restless  deeds  and  days, 
Still  is  His  image — bright  or  dim — 
And  scorning  it,  is  scorning  Him. 


XVI 
LIFE. 

FORENOON,  and  afternoon,  and  night,— Fore- 
noon, 

And  afternoon,  and  night, — Forenoon,  and — what ! 
The  empty  song  repeats  itself.     No  more  ? 
Yea,  that  is  Life  :  make  this  forenoon  sublime, 
This  afternoon  a  psalm,  this  night  a  prayer, 
And  Time  is  conquered,  and  thy  crown  is  won. 
7* 


XVII 
THE  CHOICE. 

ONLY  so  much  of  power  each  day — 
So  much  nerve-force  brought  in  play 
If  it  goes  for  politics  or  trade, 
Ends  gained  or  money  made, 
You  have  it  not  for  the  soul  and  God — 
The  choice  is  yours,  to  soar  or  plod. 
So  much  water  in  the  rill  : 
It  may  go  to  turn  the  miller's  wheel, 

Or  sink  in  the  desert,  or  flow  on  free 
To  brighten  its  banks  in  meadows  green, 
Till  broadening  out,  fair  fields  between, 

It  streams  to  the  moon-enchanted  sea. 
Only  so  little  power  each  day  : 
Week  by  week  days  slide  away  ; 

Ere  the  life  goes,  what  shall  it  be— 
A  trade — a  game — a  mockery, 
Or  the  gate  of  a  rich  Eternity  ? 


XVIII 
MORNING. 

I    ENTERED  once,  at  break  of  day, 
A  chapel,  lichen-stained  and  gray, 
Where  a  congregation  dozed  and  heard 
An  old  monk  read  from  a  written  Word. 
No  light  through  the  window-panes  could  pass, 
For  shutters  were  closed  on  the  rich-stained  glass  ; 
And  in  a  gloom  like  the  nether  night 
The  monk  read  on  by  a  taper's  light. 
Ghostly  with  shadows,  that  shrank  and  grew 
As  the  dim  light  flared,  were  aisle  and  pew ; 
And  the  congregation  that  dozed  around, 
Listened  without  a  stir  or  sound — 
Save  one,  who  rose  with  wistful  face, 
And  shifted  a  shutter  from  its  place. 


80  MORNING. 

Then  light  flashed  in  like  a  flashing  gem — 
For  dawn  had  come  unknown  to  them — 
And  a  slender  beam,  like  a  lance  of  gold, 
Shot  to  a  crimson  curtain-fold, 
Over  the  bended  head  of  him 
Who  pored  and  pored  by  the  taper  dim  ; 
And  it  kindled  over  his  wrinkled  brow 
Such  words — "  The  law  which  was  till  now  ;" 
And  I  wondered  that,  under  that  morning  ray 
When  night  and  shadow  were  scattered  away, 
The  monk  should  bow  his  locks  of  white 
By  a  taper's  feebly  flickering  light — 
Should  pore,  and  pore,  and  never  seem 
To  notice  the  golden  morning-beam. 


XIX 
A   PRAYER. 

OGOD,  our  Father,  if  we  had  but  truth  ! 
Lost  truth — which  thou  perchance 
Didst  let  man  lose,  lest  all  his  wayward  youth 

He  waste  in  song  and  dance  ; 
That  he  might  gain,  in  searching,  mightier  powers 
For  manlier  use  in  those  foreshadowed  hours. 


If,  blindly  groping,  he  shall  oft  mistake, 

And  follow  twinkling  motes 
Thinking  them  stars,  and  the  one  voice  forsake 

Of  Wisdom  for  the  notes 
Which  mocking  Beauty  utters  here  and  there, 
Thou  surely  wilt  forgive  him,  and  forbear  ! 


82  A   PRAYER. 

Oh  love  us,  for  we  love  thee,  Maker — God  ! 

And  would  creep  near  thy  hand, 
And  call  thee  "  Father,  Father,"  from  the  sod 

Where  by  our  graves  we  stand, 
And  pray  to  touch,  fearless  of  scorn  or  blame, 
Thy  garment's  hem,  which  Truth  and  Good  we  name. 


XX 

THE   POLAR   SEA. 

AT  the  North,  far  away, 
Rolls  a  great  sea  for  aye, 
Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Ice-towers  majestic  stand, 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
Never  there  man  hath  been, 
Who  hath  come  back  again, 
Telling  to  ears  of  men 
What  is  this  sea  within. 
Under  the  starlight, 
Rippling  the  moonlight, 
Drinking  the  sunlight, 


84  THE  POLAR  SEA. 

Desolate,  never  heard  nor  seen, 
Beating  forever  it  hath  been. 


From  our  life  far  away 
Roll  the  dark  waves,  for  aye, 
Of  an  Eternity, 
Silently,  awfully. 
Round  it  on  every  hand 
Death's  icy  barriers  stand, 
Guarding  this  silent  sea 
Grimly,  invincibly. 
Never  there  man  hath  been 
Who  could  return  again, 
Telling  to  mortal  ken 
What  is  within  the  sea 
Of  that  Eternity. 


Terrible  is  our  life — 

In  its  whole  blood-written  history 

Only  a  feverish  strife  ; 

In  its  beginning,  a  mystery — 

In  its  wild  ending,  an  agony. 

Terrible  is  our  death — 


THE  POLAR   SEA.  85 

Black-hanging  cloud  over  Life's  setting  sun, 

Darkness  of  night  when  the  daylight  is  done. 

In  the  shadow  of  that  cloud, 

Deep  within  that  darkness'  shroud, 

Rolls  the  ever-throbbing  sea  ; 

And  we — all  we — 

Are  drifting  rapidly 

And  floating  silently 

Into  that  unknown  sea — 

Into  Eternity. 

8 


XXI 
FAITH. 

THE  tree-top,  high  above  the  barren  field, 
Rising  beyond  the  night's  gray  folds  of  mist, 
Rests  stirless  where  the  upper  air  is  sealed 

To  perfect  silence,  by  the  faint  moon  kiss'd. 
But  the  low  branches,  drooping  to  the  ground, 

Sway  to  and  fro,  as  sways  funereal  plume, 
While    from    their    restless    depths    low    whispers 

sound — 

1 '  We  fear,  we  fear  the  darkness  and  the  gloom  ; 
Dim  forms  beneath  us  pass  and  reappear, 
And  mournful  tongues  are  menacing  us  here." 


FAITH.  87 

Then  from  the  topmost  bough  falls  calm  reply — 
"  Hush,  hush  !  I  see  the  coming  of  the  morn  ; 
Swiftly  the  silent  Night  is  passing  by, 
And  in  her  bosom  rosy  Dawn  is  borne. 
'Tis  but  your  own  dim  shadows  that  ye  see, 
'Tis  but  your  own  low  moans  that  trouble  ye." 


So  Life  stands,  with  a  twilight  world  around  ; 

Faith  turned  serenely  to  the  steadfast  sky, 
Still  answering  the  heart  that  sweeps  the  ground, 
Sobbing  in  fear,  and  tossing  restlessly — 

"Hush,    hush!     The  Dawn   breaks  o'er  the 

Eastern  sea, 
'Tis  but  thine  own  dim  shadow  troubling  thee." 


XXII 
FERTILITY. 

CLEAR  water  on  smooth  rock 
Could  give  no  foothold  for  a  single  flower, 
Or  slenderest  shaft  of  grain  : 
The  stone  must  crumble  under  storm  and  rain — 
The  forests  crash  beneath  the  whirlwind's  power — 
And  broken  boughs  from  many  a  tempest-shock, 
And  fallen  leaves  of  many  a  wintry  hour, 
Must  mingle  in  the  mould, 
Before  the  harvest  whitens  on  the  plain, 
Bearing  an  hundred-fold. 
Patience,  O  weary  heart ! 
Let  all  thy  sparkling  hours  depart, 


FERTILITY.  89 

And  all  thy  hopes  be  withered  with  the  frost, 
And  every  effort  tempest-tost — 
So,  when  all  life's  green  leaves 
Are  fallen,  and  mouldered  underneath  the  sod, 
Thou  shalt  go  not  too  lightly  to  thy  God, 
But  heavy  with  full  sheaves. 
8* 


XXIII 
MUSIC. 

THE  little  rim  of  moon  hangs  low — the  room 
Is  saintly  with  the  presence  of  the  Night, 
And  Silence  broods  with  knitted  brows  around. 
The  woven  lilies  of  the  velvet  floor 
Blend  with  the  roses  in  the  dusky  light, 
Which  shows  twin  pictures  glimmering  from  the 

walls  : 

Here,  a  mailed  group  kneels  by  the  rocky  sea — 
There,  a  gray  desert,  and  a  well,  and  palms  ; 
While  the  faint  perfume  of  a  violet, 
Vague  as  a  dream  of  Spring,  pervades  the  air. 
Where  the  moon  gleams  along  the  organ-front, 
The  crooked  shadow  of  a  dead  branch  stirs 
Like  ghostly  fingers  gliding  through  a  tune. 


MUSIC'.  9 1 

Now  rises  one  with  faintly  rustling  robes, 
And  white  hands  search  among  the  glistening  keys. 
Out  of  the  silence  sounds  are  forming — tones 
That  seem  to  come  from  infinite  distances, — 
Soft  trebles  fluttering  down  like  snowy  doves 
Just  dipping  their  swift  wings  in  the  deep  base 
That  crumbles  downward  like  a  crumbling  wave  ; 
And  out  of  those  low-gathering  harmonies 
A  voice  arises,  tangled  in  their  maze, 
Then  soaring  up  exultantly  alone, 
•While  the  accompaniment  wails  and  complains. 
—I  am  upon  the  sea-shore.     'Tis  the  sound 
Of  ocean,  surging  on  against  the  land. 
That  throbbing  thunder  is  the  roar  of  surf 
Beaten  and  broken  on  the  frothy  rocks. 
Those  whispering  trebles  are  the  plashing  waves 
That  ripple  up  the  smooth  sand's  slope,  and  kiss 
The  tinkling  shells  with  coy  lips,  quick  withdrawn  ; 
And  over  all,  the  solitary  voice 
Is  the  wind  wandering  on  its  endless  quest. 
— A  change  comes,  in  a  crash  of  minor  chords. 
I  am  a  dreamer,  waking  from  his  dream 
Into  the  life  to  which  our  life  is  sleep. 
My  soul  is  floating — floating,  till  afar 
The  round  Earth  rolls,  with  fleece  of  moonlit  cloud, 


92  MUSIC. 

A  globe  of  amber,  gleaming  as  it  goes. 

Deep  in  some  hollow  cavern  of  the  sky 

All  human  life  is  pleading  to  its  God. 

Still  the  accompaniment  wails  and  complains ; — 

A  wild  confusion  of  entangled  chords, 

Revenge,  and  fear,  and  strong  men's  agony, 

The  shrill  cry  of  despair,  the  slow,  deep  swell 

Of  Time's  long  effort,  sinking  but  to  swell, 

While  woman's  lonely  love,  and  childhood's  faith 

Go  wandering  with  soft  whispers  hand  in  hand. 

Suddenly  from  the  ages  one  pure  soul 

Is  singled  out  to  plead  before  the  Throne  ; 

And  then  again  the  solitary  voice 

Peals  up  among  the  stars  from  the  great  throng, 

Catching  from  out  the  storm  all  love,  all  hope, 

All  loveliness  of  life,  and  utters  it. 

Then  the  hushed  music  sobs  itself  to  sleep, 
And  all  is  still,— save  the  reluctant  sigh 
That  tells  the  wakening  from  immortal  dreams. 


4- 

XXIV. 
THREE  SONGS. 

SING  me,  thou  Singer,  a  song  of  gold  ! 
Said  a  careworn  man  to  me  : 
So  I  sang  of  the  golden  summer  days, 
And  the  sad,  sweet  autumn's  yellow  haze, 
Till  his  heart  grew  soft,  and  his  mellowed  gaze 
Was  a  kindly  sight  to  see. 


Sing  me,  dear  Singer,  a  song  of  love  ! 

A  fair  girl  asked  of  me  : 
Then  I  sang  of  a  love  that  clasps  the  Race, 
Gives  all,  asks  naught — till  her  kindled  face 
Was  radiant  with  the  starry  grace 

Of  blessed  Charity. 


94  THREE  SONGS. 

Sing  me,  O  Singer,  a  song  of  life ! 

Cried  an  eager  youth  to  me  : 
And  I  sang  of  the  life  without  alloy, 
Beyond  our  years,  till  the  heart  of  the  boy 
Caught  the  golden  beauty,  and  love,  and  joy 

Of  the  great  Eternity. 


XXV 
DESPAIR  AND   HOPE. 

WE  sailed  a  cruise  on  a  summer  sea- 
I,  and  a  skull  for  company  : 
I  in  the  stern  our  course  to  turn, 
And  it  on  the  prow  to  grin  at  me. 
Over  the  deep  heaven,  hung  below, 
Whose  imaged  clouds  lay  white  like  snow, 
Glided  we,  as  the  tide  might  be, 
Slipping  swiftly,  floating  slow. 

Past  the  woods  all  living  green — 
Save  by  the  marge  some  fading  tree, 

Whose  leaf,  so  early  autumn-touched, 
Would  make  the  skull  to  grin  at  me. 


96  DESPAIR   AND   HOPE. 

Past  a  grove  of  fragrant  pine, 
From  whose  dusky  depths  of  shade 
Snowy  shaft  and  colonnade 

Marked  a  ruined  altar-shrine  ; — 

And  the  skull's  grim  face  grinned  into  mine. 


Under  the  arch  of  a  vine-clasped  elm 

Leaning  off  from  the  mossy  land, 
Across  the  shallow  the  idle  helm 

Lightly  furrowed  the  silver  sand  : 
Down  the  slope  all  clover-sweet 

Danced  a  group  in  childish  glee — 
Hissed  a  swift  snake  at  their  feet ; — 

Then  the  skull  grinned  unto  me. 


Into  a  cavern  dim  and  dank 

Crept  we  on  the  creeping  tide  ; 
Shapeless  creatures  rose  and  sank, 

Dripped  with  damp  the  ceiling  wide. 
Darker,  chiller  hung  the  air  ; 

Scarcely  I  the  prow  could  see  ; 
But  I,  through  the  shadow  there, 

Felt  the  skull  still  grin  at  me. 


DESPAIR   AND   HOPE.  97 

Out  of  the  cavern's  thither  side, 

Into  a  mellow,  morn-like  glow, 
Streams  the  ripple-curving  tide  ; 

Sounds  of  music  sweeter  grow  ; 
Odorous  incense,  softened  air, 
Melodies  so  faint  and  fair, 

Thrill  me  through  with  life  and  love  : 
And  all  suddenly  from  the  prow, 
Where  had  seemed  the  skull  just  now, 

Flutters  to  my  breast  a  dove. 

9 


A 


XXVI 
WISDOM   AND  FAME. 

WILDERNESS,  made  awful  with  the  night— 
Great  glimmering  trunks  whose  tops    were 
hid  in  gloom, 

4 

Vast  columns  in  the  blackness  broken  off, 
Between  whose  ghostly  forms,  slow-wandering, 
A  company  of  lost  men  sought  a  path. 

Some  groped  among  the  dead  leaves  and  fallen 

boughs 

For  footprints  ;  but  the  rattle  of  the  leaves 
And  crook  of  stems  seemed  serpents  coiled  to  strike. 

Some  took  the  momentary  sparks  that  rode 
Upon  their  straining  eyeballs,  for  far  lights, 
And  followed  them. 

Some  stood  apart,  in  vain 
Searching,  with  horror-widened  eyes,  for  stars. 


WISDOM  AND   FAME.  99 

So  stumbling  on,  they  circled  round  and  round 
Through  the  same  mazes. 

*     Then  they  singled  one 

To  climb  a  pinnacled  height,  and  see  from  thence 
The  landmarks,  and  to  shout  from   thence  their 

course. 

With  aching  sinews,  bleeding  feet,  bruised  hands, 
He  gained  the  height ;  but  when  they  cried  to  him 
They  got  but  maudlin  answers,- — he  had  found, 
Slaking  hot  thirst,  a  fruit  that  maddened  him. 

Another,  and  another  still  they  sent ; 
But  every  one  that  climbed  found  the  ill  fruit 
And  maddened,  and  gave  back  but  wild  replies  : 
And  still  in  darkness  they  go  wandering,  lost. 


XXVII 
SERENITY. 

BROOK, 
Be  still,— be  still  ! 
Midnight's  arch  is  broken 
In  thy  ceaseless  ripples. 
Dark  and  cold  below  them 
Runs  the  troubled  water, — 
Only  on  its  bosom, 
Shimmering  and  trembling, 
Doth  the  glinted  star-shine 

Sparkle  and  cease. 


SERENITY.  101 

Life, 

Be  still,— be  still ! 
Boundless  truth  is  shattered 
On  thy  hurrying  current. 
Rest,  with  face  uplifted, 
Calm,  serenely  quiet ; 
Drink  the  deathless  beauty — 
Thrills  of  love  and  wonder 
Sinking,  shining,  star-like  ; 
Till  the  mirrored  heaven 
Hollow  down  within  thee 
Holy  deeps  unfathomed, 
Where  far  thoughts  go  floating, 
And  low  voices  wander 

Whispering  peace. 

9* 


XXVIII 

THE  RUBY  HEART: 
A  CHILD'S  STORY. 

UNDER  a  fragrant  blossom-bell 
A  tiny  Fairy  once  did  dwell. 
The  moss  was  bright  about  her  feet, 
Her  little  face  was  fair  and  sweet, 
Her  form  in  rainbow  hues  was  clad, 
And  yet  the  Fairy's  soul  was  sad  ; 
For,  of  the  Elves  that  round  her  moved, 
And  in  the  yellow  moonlight  roved, 
There  was  no  Spirit  that  she  loved. 


Many  a  one  there  was,  I  ween, 
Among  the  sprites  that  danced  the  green, 


THE  SUSY  HEART.  103 

Whose  hands  were  warm  to  clasp  her  own, 
And  voices  kindly  in  their  tone  ; 
But  love  the  fondest  and  the  best 
Awaked  no  answer  in  her  breast : 
Her  heart  unmoved  within  her  slept— 
And,  "I  can  never  love  !"  she  wept. 


She  taught  herself  a  quaint  old  song 
And  crooned  it  over  all  day  long  : 

"  He  praydh  best  who  loveth  best 

All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  that  loveth  tis, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. " 

"But  I,"  she  said,  "can  never  pray, 

Nor  to  His  mansions  find  the  way, 

For  He  will  suffer  not,  I  know, 

A  creature  unto  Him  to  go 

Who  has  not  loved  His  world  below." 


Slow-wandering  by  the  brook  alone, 
She  chose  a  pure  white  pebble-stone, 


104  THE  RUBY  HEART. 

And  carved  it,  sitting  there  apart, 

Into  a  little  marble  heart  ; 

She  hung  it  by  her  mossy  bed — 

"  My  heart  will  never  love,"  she  said, 

"Till  this  white  stone  turn  ruby-red." 

One  night  a  moonbeam  smote  her  face 
And  wakened  her,  and  in  its  place 
There  stood  an  angel,  full  of  grace. 
"Dear  child,"  he  said,  "from  far  above 
I  come  to  teach  thee  how  to  love. 
Do  every  day  some  little  deed 
Of  kindness,  some  faint  creature  feed, 
Make  some  hurt  spirit  cease  to  bleed, 
Then  carve  the  record  fair,  at  night, 
Upon  thy  heart  of  marble  white. 
Each  word  shall  turn  to  ruby-red, 
And  so  much  of  thy  task  be  sped  ; — 
.    For  when  the  whole  is  ruddied  o'er, 
Thy  bosom  shall  be  cold  no  more ; 
The  souls  thy  careless  thoughts  contemn 
Shall  win  thee  by  thy  deeds  to  them. " 

Upon  the  sorrowful  Fairy  broke 
Like  sudden  sunshine  this  new  hope. 


THE  RUBY  HEART.  105 

Each  day  to  some  one's  door  she  took 
A  kindly  act,  or  word,  or  look, 
Whose  record,  fairly  carved  at  night, 
Blushed  out  upon  the  stony  white  ; 
Till,  somehow,  wondrously  there  grew 
More  grace  in  every  one  she  knew — 
Each  little  ugliness  concealed, 
Each  goodness  more  and  more  revealed, — 
As,  when  you  watch  the  twilight  through, 
The  sky  seems  one  pure  empty  blue, 
Till,  o'er  the  paling  sunset-bars, 
Suddenly  'tis  one  sweep  of  stars  ! 


So  day  by  day  she  found  herself 
Grow  kindlier  to  each  little  elf; 
Yea,  even  to  the  birds  and  bees, 
And  slender  flowerets  round  her  knees  : 
The  very  moss-buds  at  her  feet 
She  came  with  warmer  smile  to  greet, 
Till  now,  at  last,  her  marbl*  heart 
Was  ruddy,  save  one  little  part 
That  gleamed  all  snowy  as  of  old 
In  the  still  moonbeams,  white  and  cold. 


106  THE  RUBY  HEART. 

Her  task  was  almost  done — she  knelt 
And  hid  her  glad  wet  eyes,  and  felt 
Her  soul's  first  prayer  steal  up  to  God, 
Like  Spring's  first  violet  from  the  sod. 
Through  all  her  being  softly  stole 
Such  joy  of  gratitude,  her  soul 
Brimmed  over  like  a  brimming  cup — 
And  then  a  voice  said,  "Child,  look  up  !' 
And  lo  !  the  stone  above  her  head 
Was  a  pure  ruby,  starry-red  ; 
And  down  among  the  flowers  there  flew 
Brushing  aside  the  moonlit  dew, 
A  little  snowy  elfin  dove, 
And  nestled  on  her  breast,  to  prove 
Sweet  trust  in  one  whose  heart  was  Love. 


XXIX 

TO   CHILD  ANNA. 


AS  in  the  Spring,  ere  any  flowers  have  come, 
A  vague  and  blossomy  smell 
Pervades  the  woods,  all  odors  mixed  in  one, 
As  if  to  tell 
That  they  are  mustering  in  each  sunny  dell, 


So  round  your  childish  form  there  seems  to  cling 
A  sense  of  nameless  grace, 

A  sweet  confusion — -budding  hints  of  Spring 
Just  giving  place  •*, 

To  graver  woman-shadows  in  your  face. 


IO8  TO    CHILD  ANNA. 

I  see  no  longer  the  mere  child  you  are — 

The  woman  you  might  be 
Stands  in  your  place,  with  eyes  that  gaze  afar 

Her  face  I  see, 

And  it  is  very  beautiful  to  me. 


The  little  soft  white  hands  you  lay  in  mine 

I  touch  with'  reverent  care  ; 
I  see  them  wrinkled  into  many  a  line, 

But  fair — more  fair 

For  every  weary  deed  they  .do  and  bear. 


The  fresh  young  mouth,  all  careless  purity, 

Has  faded  from  my  gaze, 
And  all  the  tender  looks,  which  charity 

And  many  patient  days 

Leave  round  the  lips,  seem  now  to  take  its  place. 


Therefore  I  stroke  so  tenderly  your  head, 

Or  watch  your  steps  afar, 
Praying  that  God  His  love  on  you  will  shed — 

More  faithful  far 

Than  our  blind  human  love  and  watching  are. 


XXX 

THE   WORLD'S  SECRET. 

I  KNOW  the  splendor  of  the  Sun, 
And  beauty  in  the  leaves,  and  moss,  and  grass  ; 
I  love  the  birds'  small  voices  every  one, 

And  all  the  hours  have  kindness  as  they  pass  ; 


But  still  the  heart  can  apprehend 

A  deeper  purport  than  the  brain  may  know  : 
I  see  it  at  the  dying  daylight's  end, 

And  hear  it  when  the  winds  besrin  to  blow. 


It  strives  to  speak  from  all  the  world, 

Out  of  dumb  earth,  and  moaning  ocean-tides ; 
And  brooding  Night,  beneath  her  pinions  furled, 

Some  message  writ  in  starry  cipher  hides. 
10 


110          THE  WORLD'S  SECEET. 

Must  I  go  seeking  everywhere 

The  meanings  that  behind  our  objects  be — 
A  depth  serener  in  the  azure  air, 

A  something  more  than  peace  upon  the  sea  ? 


Not  one  least  deed  one  soul  to  bless  ? 

Unto  the  stern-eyed  Future  shall  I  bear 
Only  the  sense  of  pain  without  redress, 

Self-sickness,  and  a  dull  and  stale  despair  ? 


Nay,  let  me  shape,  in  patience  slow, 

My  years,  like  the  holy  child  his  bird  of  clay, 

Till  suddenly  the  clod  its  Master  know, 

And  thrill  with  life,  and  soar  with  songs  away. 


XXXI 

THE   FOUNTAIN.      * 

WERE  it  not  horrible- 
After  all  the  dreams  we  dream, 
Our  yearnings  and  our  prayers, 
If  this  "  I "  were  but  a  stream 
Of  thoughts,  sensations,  joys,  and  pains, 
Which  being  clogged,  no  soul  remains? 
Even  as  the  fountain  seems  to  be 
A  shape  of  one  identity, 
But  only  is  a  stream  of  drops, 
And  when  the  swift  succession  stops, 
The  fountain  melts  and  disappears, 
Leaving  no  trace  but  scattered  tears. 
Yet  even  here,  O  foolish  heart, 
Thou  wert  not  cheated  of  thy  part ; 


112  THE  FOUNTAIN. 

Were  it  not  better,  even  here, 

To  keep  thy  current  pure  and  clear, 

With  pearly  drops  of  dew  to  wet 

The  amaranth  and  violet, 

And  round  thy  crystal  feet  to  shower 

Blessings  and  beauty  ever  hour — 

Better  than  in  a  sullen  flow 

To  creep  around  the  ground,  and  go 

Wasting  and  sinking  through  the  sand, 

Because  not  always  thus  to  stand  ? 


XXXII. 
DISCONTENT. 

OH  THAT  one  could  arise  and  flee 
Unto  blue-eyed  Italy, 
Far  from  mechanical  clank  and  hum  ! 
There  to  sit  by  the  sighing  sea, 
And  to  dream  of  the  days  that  shall  be — shall  be — 
And  the  glory  of  years  to  come  : 
Or  on  some  far  ocean-isle, 
Under  the  palm  and  the  cocoa-tree, 
To  build  of  the  coral  boughs  a  home  : 
Or  floating  and  falling  adown  the  Nile, 
To  drown  one's  cares  in  the  deeps  of  Time 
And  the  desert's  brooding  mystery. 
10* 


114  DISCONTENT. 

Yet  howsoever  we  plot  or  plan, 

In  every  age — through  every  clime — 

Still  the  littleness  of  man 

Would  follow  us,  fast  as  we  might  flee  ; 

And  the  wrangling  world  break  in  on  whatever  is 

tender  and  sweet, 
As  on  a  beautiful  tune  the  rattling  and  noise  of  the 

street. 


XXXIII 
SOLITUDE. 

ALL  alone— alone, 
Calm,  as  on  a  kingly  throne, 
Take  thy  place  in  the  crowded  land, 
Self-centred  in  free  self-command. 
Let  thy  manhood  leave  behind 
The  narrow  ways  of  the  lesser  mind  : 
What  to  thee  are  its  little  cares, 
The  feeble  love  or  the  spite  it  bears  ? 
Let  the  noisy  crowd  go  by  : 
In  thy  lonely  watch  on  high, 
Far  from  the  chattering  tongues  of  men, 
Sitting  above  their  call  or  ken, 
Free  from  links  of  manner  and  form 
Thou  shalt  learn  of  the  winged  storm — 
God  shall  speak  to  thee  out  of  the  sky. 


XXXIV 
A   PARADOX. 

HASTE,  haste,  O  laggard  ! — leave  thy  drowsy 
dreams  ; 

Cram  all  thy  brain  with  knowledge — clutch  and  cram  ! 
The  earth  is  wide,  the  universe  is  vast : 
Thou  hast  infir/ity  to  learn.     Oh  haste ! 


Haste  not,  haste  not,  my  soul !     "Infinity?" 
Thou  hast  eternity  to  learn  it  in. 
Thy  boundless  lesson  through  the  endless  years 
Hath  boundless  leisure.     Run  not  like  a  slave — 
Sit  like  a  king,  and  see  the  ranks  of  worlds 
Wheel  in  their  cycles  onward  to  thy  feet. 


T 
XXXV 

THE  FUTURE. 

WHAT  may  we  take  into  the  vast  Forever  ? 
That  marble  door 

Admits  no  fruit  of  all  our  long  endeavor, 
No  fame-wreathed  crown  we  wore, 
No  garnered  lore. 


What  can  we  bear  beyond  the  unknown  portal  ? 

No  gold,  no  gains 
Of  all  our  toiling  :  in  the  life  immortal 

No  hoarded  wealth  remains, 

Nor  gilds,  nor  stains. 


I  1 8  THE  FUTURE. 

Naked  from  out  that  far  abyss  behind  us 

We  entered  here  : 
No  word  came  with  our  coming,  to  remind  us 

What  wondrous  world  was  near, 

No  hope,  no  fear. 


Into  the  silent,  starless  Night  before  us, 

Naked  we  glide  : 
No  hand  has  mapped  the  constellations  o'er  us, 

No  comrade  at  our  side, 

No  chart,  no  guide. 

Yet  fearless  toward  that  midnight,  black  and  hollow, 

Our  footsteps  fare  : 
The  beckoning  of  a  Father's  hand  we  follow— 

His  love  alone  is  there, 

No  curse,  no  care. 


XXXVI 
RETROSPECT. 

NOT  all  which  we  have  been 
Do  we  remain, 
Nor  on  the  dial-hearts  of  men 

Do  the  years  mark  themselves  in  vain  ; 
But  every  cloud  that  in  our  sky  hath  passed, 
Some  gloom  or  glory  hath  upon  us  cast ; 
And  there  have  fallen  from  us,  as  we  travelled, 

Many  a  burden  of  an  ancient  pain — 
Many  a  tangled  chord  hath  been  unravelled, 

Never  to  bind  our  foolish  heart  again. 
Old  loves  have  left  us,  lingeringly  and  slow, 
As  melts  away  the  distant  strain  of  low 
Sweet  music — waking  us  from  troubled  dreams, 
Lulling  to  holier  ones — that  dies  afar 
On  the  deep  night,  as  if  by  silver  beams 
Claspt  to  the  trembling  breast  of  some  charmed  star, 


120  RETROSPECT. 

And  we  have  stood  and  watched,  all  wistfully, 

While  fluttering  hopes  have  died  out  of  our  lives, 

As  one  who  follows  with  a  straining  eye 

A  bird  that  far,  far-off  fades  in  the  sky, 

A  little  rocking  speck — now  lost ;  and  still  he  strives 

A  moment  to  recover  it — in  vain  ; 

Then  slowly  turns  back  to  his  work  again. 

But  loves  and  hopes  have  left  us  in  their  place, 

Thank  God  !  a  gentle  grace, 

A  patience,  a  belief  in  His  good  time, 

Worth  more  than  all  earth's  joys  to  which  we  climb. 


XXXVII 
PI  O  M  E. 

I  KNOW  a  spot  beneath  three  ancient  trees, 
A  solitude  of  green  and  grassy  shade, 
Where  the  tall  roses,  naked  to  the  knees, 

In  that  deep  shadow  wade, 

Whose  rippled  coolness  dri  s  from  bough  to  bough, 
And  bathes  the  world's  vexat'on  from  my  brow. 


The  gnarled  limbs  spring  upward  airy-free, 
And  never  from  their  perfect  arch  they  swerve, 

Like  spouted  fountains  from  a  dark,  green  sea, 
So  beautiful  they  curve, — 

Motionless  fountains,  slumbering  in  mid-air, 

With  spray  of  shadows  falling  everywhere. 


1  2  2  HOME. 

Here  the  Sun  comes  not  like  the  king  of  day, 
To  rule  his  own,  but  hesitant ;   afraid, 

Forbears  his  sceptre's  golden  length  to  lay 
Across  the  inviolate  shade, 

And  wraps  the  broad  space  like  a  darkened  tent, 

With  many  a  quivering  shaft  of  splendor  rent. 


Seclusion,  as  an  island  still  and  lone, 

Round  which  the  Ocean-world  may  ebb  and  flow 
Unheeded,  following  fruitlessly  the  moon ; 

And  where  the  soul  may  go 
Naked  of  all  its  vanities  and  cares, 
To  meet  the  bounteous  grace  that  Nature  bares. 


Here  stretched  at  morn  I  watch  the  sunrise  ray 
That  sweeps  across  the  earth  like  minstrel's  hand, 

Waking  from  all  the  birds  a  song  of  day, 
Caught  up  from  land  to  land  ; 

And1  earth  is  beautiful  and  hearts  are  brave, 

Ere  busy  Life  has  waked  to  claim  her  slave. 


HOME.  123 

Each  day — a  pure  and  velvet-petall'd  flower — 

Blooms  fresh  at  dawn,  with  trembling  light  bedewn, 
-  But  dull  and  tarnished  at  the  mid-day  hour — 

The  noisy,  trampling  noon — 
Its  beauty  soiled  with  handling.      Ever  choose 
The  virgin  morning  for  the  soul  to  use. 


The  wind  comes  hushing,  hushing  through  the  trees, 
Like  surf  that  breaks  on  an  invisible  beach 

And  sends  a  spray  of  whispers  down  the  breeze, 
Whispers  that  seem  to  reach 

From  some  far  inner  land  where  spirits  dwell, 

And  hint  the  secret  which  they  may  not  tell. 


No  garrulous  company  is  here,  but  books — 

Earth's  best  men  taken  at  their  best — books  used, 

With  dark-edged  paths  and  pencilled  margin-strokes, 
Where  friends  have  paused  and  mused  ; 

And  here  and  there,  beneath  the  noticed  lines, 

Faint  zigzag  marks  like  little  trailing  vines. 


124  HO  MS. 

Here,  what  to  me  are  all  the  childish  cares 
That  make  a  Bedlam  of  the  busy  world  ?    - 

Each  hour  that  flies  some  quiet  message  bears 
Beneath  its  moments  furled, 

Like  a  white  dove,  that,  under  her  soft  wings, 

Kind    thoughts    from    far-off   home  and    kindred 
brings. 


XXXVIII 
THE   DEAD   PRESIDENT. 

WERE  there  no  crowns  on  earth, 
No  evergreen  to  weave  a  hero's  wreath, 
That  he  must  pass  beyond  the  gates  of  death, 
Our  hero,  our  slain  hero,  to  be  crowned  ? 
Could  there  on  our  unworthy  earth  be  found 
Naught  to  befit  his  worth  ? 


The  noblest  soul  of  all ! 
When  was  there  ever,  since  our  Washington, 
A  man  so  pure,  so  wise,  so  patient — one 
Who  walked  with  this  high  goal  alone  in  sight, 
To  speak,  to  do,  to  sanction  only  Right, 

Though  very  heaven  should  fall ! 


126  THE  DEAD   PRESIDENT, 

Ah,  not  for  him  we  weep  ; 
What  honor  more  could  be  in  store  for  him  ? 
Who  would  have  had  him  linger  in  our  dim 
And  troublesome  world,  when  his  great  work  was 

done — 
Who  would  not  leave  that  worn  and  weary  one 

Gladly  to  go  to  sleep  ? 


For  us  the  stroke  was  just ; 
We  were  not  worthy  of  that  patient  heart ; 
We  might  have  helped  him  more,  not  stood  apart, 
And  coldly  criticised  his  works  and  ways  : 
Too  late  now,  all  too  late — our  little  praise 

Sounds  hollow  o'er  his  dust. 


Be  merciful,  O  God  ! 

Forgive  the  meanness  of  our  human  hearts, 
That  never,  till  a  noble  soul  departs, 
See  half  the  worth,  or  hear  the  angel's  wings 
Till  they  go  rustling  heavenward  as  he  springs 

Up  from  the  mounded  sod. 


THE  DEAD   PRESIDENT.  12 

Yet,  what  a  deathless  crown 
Of  Northern  pine  and  Southern  orange-flower, 
For  victory,  and  the  land's  new  bridal-hour, 
Would  we  have  wreathed  for  that  beloved  brow  ! 
Sadly  upon  his  sleeping  forehead  now 

We  lay  our  Cypress  down. 


O  martyred  one,  farewell ! 
Thou  hast  not  left  thy  people  quite  alone  : 
Out  of  thy  beautiful  life  there  comes  a  tone 
Of  power,  of  love,  of  trust — a  prophecy, 
Whose  fair  fulfilment  all  the  earth  shall  be, 

And  all  the  Future  tell. 


XXXIX 
SEEMING  AND  BEING. 

'  I  ^*HE  brave  old  motto,  "Seem  not — only  be,"- 

-*.    Would  it  were  set  ablaze  against  the  sky 
In  golden  letters,  where  the  world  must  read  ! 
What  is  there  done  for  the  honest  doing's  sake, 
In  these  poor  times  gone  mad  with  self-parade  ? 
There's  not  a  picture  of  the  Cross  but  bears 
The  painter's  name  as  prominent  as  the  Christ's  : 
^There's  not  a  scene,  of  such  peculiar  grace 
That  one  would  fain  forget  men's  meanness  there, 
But  from  the  rocks  some  rascal  clothier's  name 
Stares  in  great  capitals,  till  one  could  wish 
The  knave  hung  from  his  signboard,  for  a  sign  : 
There's  not  a  graveyard  in  the  land,  but  lo  ! 
On  the  white  tablets  of  the  dead,  full  cut 
Below  their  sacred  names,  his  shameless  name 
Who  carved  the  marble  ! 


SEEMING  AND  BEING.  12<) 

Is  it  not  pitiful  ? 

We  are  all  actors,  and  all  audience. 
Yea,  such  a  dreary  farce  we  make  our  lives, 
That  something  is  expected  of  a  man 
Upon  his  deathbed  :   "  Hark  ye  now,  good  friends, 
These  fine  last  words,  this  notable  bravery, — see  !" 
So  even  the  grim  cross-bones  of  awful  Death 
Must  take  an  attitude,  and  the  skull  smirk 
For  a  last  picture. 


Here  is  a  nation,  too, 

(God  help  it !)  that  dare  scarcely  act  its  mind, 
But  walks  the  world's  stage,  quaking  with  the  thought, 
"What  will  great  England  think  of  me  for  this?" 


The  poet  scoffs  at  fame,  then  sets  himself, 
Full-titled,  with  a  portrait  at  the  front ; 
Each  beautiful,  impatient  soul,  who  left 
The  world  he  scorned,  still  lingered  near  enough 
To  listen,  not  displeased,  and  hear  the  world 
Admiringly  relate  how  he  had  scorned  it ; 
Even  our  great  doubting  Thomas,  in  young  days 
When  he  praised  silence,  did  it  with  loud  speech, 


130  SEEMING  AND  BEING. 

That  ever  too  distinctly  told,  "  'Tis  I, 
Thomas,  so  noisily  abuse  your  noise  !" 


Is  it  not  enough  for  the  trumpet  that  the  god 
Has  chosen  it  to  sound  his  message  through — 
Must  the  brass  blare  in  its  own  petty  praise  ? 
And  can  we  never  do  the  right,  and  do  it 
As  though  we  were  alone  upon  the  earth, 
And  the  gods  blind  ? 


XL 
SUMMER  AFTERNOON. 

FAR  in  hollow  mountain  canons 
Brood,  with  purple-folded  pinions, 
Flocks  of  drowsy  distance-colors  on  their  nests  ; 
And  the  bare  round  slopes  for  forests 
Have  cloud-shadows,  floating  forests, 
On  their  breasts. 


Winds  are  wakening  and  dying, 
Questions  low  with  low  replying, 
Through  the  oak  a  hushed  and  trembling  whisper 

goes  : 

Faint  and  rich  the  air  with  odors, 
Hyacinth  and  spicy  odors 

Of  the  rose. 


^32  SUMMER   AFTERNOON. 

Even  the  flowerless  acacia 
Is  one  flower — such  slender  stature, 
With  its  latticed  leaves  a-tremble  in  the  sun  : 
They  have  shower-drops  for  blossoms, 
Quivering  globes  of  diamond-blossoms, 
Every  one. 


In  the  blue  of  heaven  holy 
Clouds  go  floating,  floating  slowly, 
Pure  in  snowy  robe  and  sunny  silver  crown  ; 
And  they  seem  like  gentle  angels — 
Leisure-full  and  loitering  angels, 

Looking  down. 


Half  the  birds  are  wild  with  singing, 
And  the  rest  with  rhythmic  winging 
Sing  in  melody  of  motion  to  the  sight ; 
Every  little  sparrow  twitters, 
Cheerily  chirps,  and  cheeps,  and  twitters 
His  delight. 


SUMMER  AFTERNOON.  133 

Sad  at  heart  amid  the  splendor, 
Dull  to  all  the  radiance  tender, 
What  can  I  for  such  a  world  give  back  again  ? 
Could  I  only  hint  the  beauty — 
Some  least  shadow  of  the  beauty, 
Unto  men  ! 

12 


XLI 
WEATHER-BOUND. 

THOU  pitiless,  false  sea  ! 
How,  like  a  woman,  thou  wilt  softly  sigh 
With  heaving  breast  where  bubble-jewels  shine, 
Or,  beckoning,  toss  thy  foam-white  arms  on  high, 
And  laugh  with  those  blue  sunny  eyes  of  thine  ! 

Ah,  crouching,  creeping  sea  ! 
Thou  tiger-cat !  how,  while  the  winds  make  pause 

To  stroke  thy  long  smooth  back  in  quiet  play, 
Thou  canst  unsheathe  thy  velvet-hidden  claws 

And  spring  all  unawares  upon  thy  prey  ! 


WE  A  THER-B  0  UND.  135 

Thou  treacherous,  cruel  sea  ! 
How  thou  wilt  show  thy  glittering  smile  at  night, 

Hiding  thy  fangs,  hushing  thy  fiendish  cry, 
And  rise  all  gentle  sport  from  licking  white 

The  bones  of  men  that  underneath  thee  lie  ! 

O  bitter,  bitter  sea  ! 
Didst  thou  not  fawn  about  my  naked  feet, 

When  I  stood  with  thee  on  the  beach,  and  say 
That  thou  wouldst  bear  me  swiftly  home  to  meet 

My  darling,  waiting  there  in  vain  to-day  ? 

Yea,  thou  most  mighty  sea  ! 
Keep  then  that  promise  murmured  on  the  shore ; 

Put  thy  great  shoulders  to  our  loitering  keel, 
Not  as  in  rage  and  wrath  thou  hast  before — 

Let  the  good  ship  thy  help  gigantic  feel. 

Thou  answerest  me,  O  sea  I 
Lifting  in  silence,  o'er  the  waters  stilled, 

The  shattered  fragment  of  a  rainbow  fair, 
A  mocking  promise,  ne'er  to  be  fulfilled, 

Based  on  the  waves  and  broken  in  mid-air. 


XLII 
TO   CHILD   SARA. 


I   LOOKED  in  a  dew-drop's  heart  to-day 
As  it  clung  on  a  leaf  of  clover, 
Holding  a  sparkle  of  starry  light, 
Like  a  liquid  drop  of  opal  bright 
With  diamond  dusted  over. 


In  that  least  globe  of  quivering  dew, 

The  sunny  scene  around, 
Diminished  to  a  grass-blade's  width — 
Scarcely  a  fairy's  finger-breadth — 

All  imaged  there  I  found  : 


TO   CHILD  SARA.  137 

The  spreading  oak,  the  fir's  soft  fringe, 
The  grain-field's  brightening  green, 

The  linnet  that  flew  fluttering  by, 

And,  over  all,  the  dear  blue  sky, 
The  bending  boughs  between  : 


And  all  the  night,  as  from  its  nest 

It  gazes  up  afar, 

Its  bosom  holds  the  heavens  deep, 
Whose  constellations  o'er  it  sweep, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 


Child,  is  that  drop  of  dew — your  soul- 

With  mirrored  heaven  as  bright  ? 
(Forgive  me  that  I  ask  of  you, 
Whose  heart  I  know  is  pure  and  true 
And  stainless  as  the  light :) 


The  sunshine,  and  the  starlight  too, — 

Fair  hope,  and  faith  as  fair, 
Courage,  and  patience,  silent  power, 
And  wisdom  for  each  troubled  hour, — 
Tell  me,  are  they  all  there  ? 

12* 


138  TO    CHILD   SARA. 

Your  quiet  grace,  and  kindly  words 
Have  influence  sweet  and  strong ; 
Your  hand  and  voice  can  calm  the  brain, 
And  cheer  the  heavy  hearts  of  men 
With  music  and  with  song  : 


Let  the  soul  answer — can  it  give 
That  music  clear  and  calm — 
The  rhythmic  years,  the  holier  aim, 
The.-scorn  of  pleasure,  fortune,  fame — 
To  make  our  life  a  psalm  ? 


All  round  the  house,  your  birthday  morn 

The  budded  orchards  stand  ; 
And  we  can  watch  from  every  room 
The  trees  all  blushing  into  bloom — 
Blossoms  on  every  hand  : 


So  may  your  Life  be,  many  a  year, 

A  fair  and  goodly  tree  ; 
Not  blossoming  only,  but  sublime 
With  fruit,  so  hastening  the  time 

When  Earth  shall  Eden  be. 


XLIII 
A   FABLE. 

TO    CHILD     ANNA. 

ONE  morning,  in  a  Prince's  park, 
Before  the  rising  of  the  lark 
Or  the  first  glimmering  twilight  beam, 
A  Lily  blossomed  by  a  stream  ; 
Just  at  the  dullest,  darkest  hour, 
When  frowning  clouds  in  heaven  lower, 
When  shadows  crouch  all  gaunt  and  grim, 
And  every  little  star  is  dim. 
"  O  dreary  world  !"  the  Lily  sighed  : 
Only  the  dreary  wind  replied. 

Soon,  in  the  East  uprising  slow, 
A  cold  gray  dawn  began  to  grow. 
The  Lily  watched  where  all  around 
The  mist  came  creeping  o'er  the  ground, 


140  A   FABLE. 

And  listened,  while  with  sadder  tone 
The  morning-wind  began  to  moan  : 
But  all  the  more  the  light  drew  on, 
Her  tear-dewed  cheek  was  deathlier  wan,- 
Each  streak  of  daylight,  as  it  grew, 
Revealed  a  world  so  strange  and  new. 
Slowly  the  dawn  crept  up  the  sky 
Like  a  cold,  cruql,  watching  eye. 
Once  from  some  little  wakened  bird 
A  twittering  note  of  joy  she  heard  : 
The  chill  dew  fell  upon  her  head — 
She  almost  wished  that  she  were  dead  ; 
"There  comes  no  joy  for  me,"  she  said. 
A  gnarled  and  wisdom-wrinkled  Oak 
Which  overheard,  in  answer  spoke  : 
"O  foolish  little  Lilybell, 
Why  do  you  weep,  when  all  is  well  ? 
Look  up  !     Have  faith  !     For  by-and-by 
The  sun  is  coming  up  the  sky ; 
All  golden  red  the  heavens  will  glow, 
All  golden  green  the  earth  below  ; 
The  birds  their  rippling  songs  will  sing, 
And  wooing  winds  their  spices  bring  : 
And  then  the  Prince  will  hither  come 
To  wander  'mid  his  flowers,  and  some, 


A  FABLE.  141 

(Ah,  favored  blossoms  !)  bending  down, 
He  plucks  and  places  in  his  crown. 
Look  up,  O  foolish  Lilybell  ! 
A  little  while,  and  all  is  well." 

The  Lily  drooped  and  trembled  still  : 
"The  dawn,"  she  sobbed,  " is  dim  and  chill  ; 
And  if  the  Prince  should  come,  alas  ! 
He  will  not  stoop  among:  the  grass  ; 
I  surely  cannot  please  his  eyes, 
For  I  am  neither  fair  nor  wise  : 
He'll  choose  some  tall  and  stately  tree, 
He  surely  will  not  care  for  me  1" 

But  now  the  sunrise  was  at  hand, 
Lighting  with  splendor  all  the  land  ; 
As  if  a  seraph  stood  below 
With  lifted  pinions  all  aglow, 
Whose  tips  of  fire  still  nearer  came 
In  feathery  plumes  of  floating  flame  ; 
While  from  his  hidden  face  the  rays 
Shot  up  and  set  the  heavens  ablaze. 
They  warmed  the  old  Oak's  wrinkled  face, 
And  touched  it  with  a  mellow  grace  ; 
Then  dancing  downward  to  his  feet 
They  kissed  the  Lily's  face  so  sweet, 


142  A    FABLE. 

And  laughed  away  her  foolish  fear 
And  lit  a  gem  in  every  tear  ; 
Then  flew  to  greet  the  Master's  eye, 
Who  even  now  was  drawing  nigh. 

He  saw  the  Lily's  fragile  cup 
With  dew  and  sunlight  brimming  up, 
And,  as  he  marked  each  beauty  well, 
The  petals  pure  as  pearliest  shell, 
And  on  the  lowly  bending  stem 
The  tear-drop  sparkling  like  a  gem, 
The  Prince  was  glad,  and  stooping  down 
Plucked  it,  and  set  it  in  his  crown  ; 
And  'mid  the  jewels  glittering  there 
None  shone  so  royally  and  rare, 
For  none  was  half  so  pure  and  fair. 

Dear  child,  'tis  our  ingratitude, 
And  faithless  fear,  and  sullen  mood, 
Darken  a  world  so  bright  and  good  ! 
There's  nothing  beautiful  and  true — 
There's  not  a  rift  of  heaven's  blue, 
And  not  a  flower,  or  dancing  leaf, 
But  shames  our  selfish-hearted  grief. 
His  hand  that  feels  the  sparrow's  fall, 
And  builds  the  bee  his  castle-wall, 


A   FABLE.  143 

And  spreads  the  tiniest  insect's  sail, 

And  tints  the  violet's  purple  veil, 

Will  never  let  His  children  stray 

Or  wander  from  His  arms  away. 

To-day  may  seem  all  cold  and  dim — 

Trust  the  To-morrow  unto  Him. 

'Tis  slander  that  we  often  hear — 

"  Hope  whispers  falsehoods  in  our  ear," — 

There's  no  such  lying  voice  as  Fear. 

Hope  is  a  prophet  sent  from  Heaven, 

Fear  is  a  false  and  croaking  raven. 

The  dawn  that  buds  all  gray  and  cold 

Will  blossom  to  a  sky  of  gold  ; 

God's  love  shall  like  a  sunrise  stay 

To  lighten  all  the  future  way — 

Still  brighter  to  the  Perfect  Day. 


XL1V 
THE  CREATION. 

A  FOUNTAIN    nisheth    upward    from    God's 
throne  : 

Its  streaming  stem  we  name  Eternal  Power  : 
Its  tossing  drops  are  worlds,  that  spin  and  fall, 
While  on  their  spheres  our  little  human  lives 
Like  gleams  and  shadows  swiftly  glance  and  go. 


XLV 
THE  FIRST  CAUSE. 

DOUBTLESS  the  linnet,  shut  within  its  cage, 
Thinks  the  fair  child  that  loves  it,  brings  it  seed, 
Arid  hangs  it,  chirping  to  it,  in  the  sun, 
Is  the  preserver  of  its  little  world. 

Doubtless  the  child,  within  her  nursery  walls, 
Thinks  her  kind  father  is  the  father  of  all 
Those  happy  children,  chattering  on  the  lawn — 
Keeps  yonder  town  as  well  as  this  bright  room, 
And  pours  the  brook  that  sparkles  past  the  door. 

Doubtless  we  think  the  Being  who  made  man, 
The  visible  world,  space  powdered  thick  with  stars, 
The  golden  fruit  whose  core  is  curious  life, 
Created  all  things — love,  and  law,  and  death  ; 
Fate,  the'crowned  forehead  ;  Will,  the  sceptred  hand. 


146  THE  FIRST   CAUSE. 

Perchance — perchance  :  yet  need  it  be  that  He 
Who  planted  us  is  the  Head-gardener  ?     What 
If  beyond  Him  rose  rank  on  rank,  as  the  bulb 
Is  higher  than  the  crystals  of  its  food, 
And  he  who  set  it,  higher  than  the  flower, 
And  he  that  owns  the  garden,  more  than  all  ? 

The  great  Cause  works  through  lesser  ones ;  permits 
The  plant  to  bear  dead  buds  on  dying  stems  ; 
The  beaver  to  weave  dams  that  the  stream  snaps  ; 
The  workman  to  make  watches  that  lose  time, 
Or  organ-pipes  all  jarred  and  out  of  tune. 
Did  not  I  build  a  playhouse  for  my  boys, 
And  made  it  ill,  and  that  loose  plank  fell  down 
And  hurt  the  children  ?     And  did  not  I  learn, 
After  three  trials,  how  to  make  it  well  ? 
Know  we  the  limit  of  the  power  He  gives 
To  lesser  Wills  to  will  imperfectly  ? 
Is  earth  that  limit  ?     Is  the  last  link  man, 
Between  the  finite  and  the  infinite  ? 
When  that  new  star  flared  out  in  heaven,  and  died, 
Who  knows  what  Spirit,  failing  in  his  plan, 
Dashed  out  his  work  in  wrath,  to  try  anew  ? 

O  mother  world  !  we  stammer  at  thy  knee 
Vainly  our  childish  questions.  'Tis  enough 
For  such  as  we  to  know,  that  on  His  throne, 


THE  FIEST   CAUSE.  147 

Nearer  than  we  can  think,  and  farther  off 
Than  any  mind  can  fathom,  sits  the  One, 
And  sees  to  it — though  pain  and  evil  come, 
And  all  may  not  be  good — that  all  is  well. 


XLVI 
SEMELE. 

WHAT  were  the  garden-bowers  of  Thebes  to 
me? 

What  cared  I  for  their  dances  and  their  feasts, 
Whose  heart  awaited  an  immortal  doom  ? 
The  Greek  youths  mocked  me,  since  I  shunned  in 

scorn 

Them  and  their  praises  of  my  brows  and  hair. 
The  light  girls  pointed  after  me,  who  turned 
Soul-sick  from  their  unending  fooleries. 
Apollo's  noon-glare  wrathfully  beat  down 
Upon  the  head  that  would  not  bend  to  him — 
Him  in  his  fuming  anger  ! — as  the  highest. 
In  every  lily's  cup  a  venomous  thing 
Crooked  up  its  hairy  limbs  ;  or,  if  I  bent 
To  pluck  a  blue-eyed  blossom  in  the  grass, 
Some  squatted  horror  leered  with  motionless  eyes. 


SEMELE.  149 

I  think  the  very  earth  did  hate  my  feet, 
And  put  forth  thistles  to  them,  since  I  loathed 
Her  bare  brown  bosom  ;  and  the  scowling  pines 
Menaced  me  with  dark  arms,  and  hissed  their  threats 
Behind  me,  hurrying  through  their  gloom,  to  watch 
(Blurred  in  unsteady  tears  till  all  their  beams 
Dazzled,  and  shrank,  and  grew)  that  oval  ring 
Of  shining  points  that  rift  the  Milky-way, 
Revealing,  through  their  gap  in  the  dusted  fire, 
The  hollow  awfulness  of  night  beyond. 


There  came  a  change  :  a  glory  fell  to  me. 
No  more  'twas  Semele,  the  lonely  girl, 
But  Jupiter's  Beloved,  Semele. 
With  human  arms  the  god  came  clasping  me : 
New  life  streamed  from  his  presence  ;  and  a  voice, 
That  scarce  could  curb  itself  to  the  smooth  Greek, 
Now  and  anon  swept  forth  in  those  deep  nights, 
Thrilling  my  flesh  Vith  awe  ;  mysterious  words — 
I  knew  not  what ;  hints  of  unearthly  things 
That  I  had  felt  on  solemn  summer  noons, 
When  sleeping  earth  dreamed  music,  and  the  heart 
Went  crooning  a  low  song  it  could  not  learn, 
13* 


150  SEMELE. 

But  Wcandered  over  it,  as  one  who  gropes 
For  a  forgotten  chord  upon  a  lyre. 


Yea,  Jupiter  !     But  why  this  mortal  guise, 
Wooing  as  if  he  were  a  milk-faced  boy  ? 
Did  I  lack  lovers?     Was  my  beauty  dulled, 
The  golden  hair  turned  dross,  the  lithe  limbs  shrunk, 
The  deathless  longings  tamed,  that  I  should  seethe 
My  soul  in  love  like  any  shepherd  girl  ? 

One  night  he  sware  to  grant  whate'er  I  asked  ; 
And  straight  I  cried — "To  know  thee  as  thou  art ! 
To  hold  thee  on  my  heart  as  Juno  does  ! 
Come  in  thy  thunder — kill  me  with  one  fierce 
Divine  embrace  ! — Thine  oath  ! — Now,    Earth,    at 
last— !" 


The  heavens  shot  one  swift  sheet  of  lurid  flame  : 
The  world  crashed  :  from  a  body  scathed  and  torn 
The  soul  leapt  through,  and  found  his  breast,  and  died. 

"Died?" — So  the  Theban   maidens  think,  and 

laugh, 
Saying,  "  She  had  her  wish,  that  Semele  !" 


SEMELE.  I  5  I 

But  sitting  here  upon  Olympus'  height 

I  look  down,  through  that  oval  ring  of  stars, 

And  see  the  far-off  Earth,  a  twinkling  speck — 

Dust-mote  whirled  up  from  the  Sun's  chariot  wheel — 

And  pity  their  small  hearts  that  hold  a  man 

As  if  he  were  a  god  ;  or  know  the  god — 

Or  dare  to  know  him — only  as  a  man  ! 

— O  human  love,  art  thou  forever  blind  ? 


XLVII 

A  pqprs  APOLOGY. 

TRUTH  cut  o-n  high  in 'tablets  of  hewn  stone, 
Or  on  great  columns  gorgeously  adorned, 
Perchance  were  left  alone, 
Passed  by  and  scorned  ; 
But  Truth  enchased  upon  a  jewel  rare, 
A  man  would  keep]  and  next  his  bosom  wear. 

So,  many  an  hour,  I  sit  and  carve  my  gems — 
Ten  spoiled,  for  one  in  purer  beauty  set : 

Not  for  kings'  diadems — 
Some  amulet 

That  may  be  worn  o'er  hearts  that  toil  and  plod, — 

Though  but  one  pearl  that  bears  the  name  of  God. 


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"The  combination  of  literary  and  political  discussions  of  so  un- 
common excellence,  free  from  vulgarity  and  flippancy,  may  al 
most  be  said  to  mark  an  epoch  in  American  Journalism.11—  New 
Englander. 

"  All  are  entertaining,  clever,  and  well-written  ;  and  some  of 
them  deserve  the  higher  praise  of  being  the  condensed  statement 
of  vigorous  thought  upon  questions  of  practical  importance.  The 
value  of  these  f-ssays  is  not  purely  literary,  but  con-ists  much 
more  in  the  reflection  they  afford  of  the  b"St  thinking  and  temper 
of  the  times  in  their  sympathetic  and  intelligent  critiei-im  of  pre- 
vailin?  forms  of  life.  We  trust  that  this  is  but  the  first  of  a  series 
of  similar  volumes.1' — A/orth  Americun  ffeviem. 

"They  are  an  honor  to  American  Journa'ism." — .Y.  Y.  Citizen. 

"In  fine,  we  Tike  all  these  articles  from  the  Nation,  for  the 
reasons  that  we  like  the  Nation,  which  has  been,  in  a  decree  sin- 
gular amon?  newspapers,  conscientious  and  candid  in  literary 
matters;  while  in  affairs  of  social  and  political  interest,  it  lias 
shown  itself  friendly  to  everything  that  could  advance  civiliza- 
tion, and  notably  indifferent  to  the  claims  of  persons  and  parties." 
—  Atlantic  Monthly. 


Co-operative   Stores :     their    History, 

Organization,  and  Management,  based  on  the.  recent 
work  of  EUGENE  RICIITKR,  with  annotations  and  amend- 
ments, rendering  the  work  specially  adapted  for  use  in 
the  United  States.  Paper,  50  cents.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

"This  useful  little  volume  will  help  to  a  correct  understanding 
of  the  principles  involved  in  co-operative  enterpriees." — 2/.  Y. 
Evening  Pout. 

"Clear,  explicit,  and  exhaustive." — Phila.  Pres». 

"Undoubtedly  the  most  practical  work  on  the  subject  in  the 
English  language.1' — Nation. 

"  Explains  the  modus  operandi  from  beginning  to  end."— Bos- 
t.n  Pout. 

"  We  commend  it  to  economists,  public-spirited  citizens,  and 
prudent  housekeepers." — Bonton  Commonwealth. 

Marriage  in  the  United  States.  Trans- 
lated from  the  French  of  AUGUST  CARLIRR,  by  Dr.  B. 
JOY  JEFFRIES.  A  very  full  treatise  on  the  subject  in 
its  legal,  moral,  and  social  aspects.  The  author  has 
combined  with  earnest  and  unprejudiced  observation  a 
careful  study  of  authorities  and  statistics. 

M  The  author  points  out  with  unshrinking  fidelity  the  faults  of 
which  he  has  been  cognizant  in  Atneiican  domestic  life ;  lie  treats 

of  delicute  subjects  in  a  delicate  manner Thewoik 

will  well  reward  an  attentive  study." — Tribune. 

"Some  of  his  trenchant  criticisms  upon  our  manners  and  cus- 
toms will  serve  a  useful  purpose.  His  analysis  of  our  divorce 
laws  is  peculiarly  worthy  of  attention.''—^.  Y.  Ercnwy  Po*t. 

Short  Whist  (Laws  of.)     Edited  by  /. 

L.  BALDWIN.    The  Standard  adopted  by  the  London  Clubs. 

And  a  Treatise  on  the  Game  by  J.  C.      16mo.,  cl.  $1.00. 

Paper,  60  cts. 

"  A  treatise  on  whist  as  attractive  and  clean  as  a  missal  belong- 
ing to  one  of  the  devotees  of  Mother  Church.  Having  been  for 
thirty-six  years  a  player  and  lover  of  the  game,  we  commend  the 
book'  to  a  beginner  desirous  of  playing  well/' — Boston  Common- 
wealth. 

"  Hoyle  would  almost  have  gone  beside  himself  with  delight 
could  he  have  seen  the  art  in  which  he  was  an  adept  dignified 
with  such  exquisite  typography  and  tasteful  binding  as  are  ex- 
pended on  this  little  manual."— New  York  Times. 


King    Rene's     Daughter.       Translated 

from  the  Danish  of  Henrik  Hertz.  By  THEO.  MARTIN. 
16rao.  Gilt  top.  $1.25. 

1  A  welcome  gift  to  our  literature."—  Oliver  Wendell  ffolmet 
"The  play  is  one  of  the  sweetest  that  was  ever  conceived."— 
Albion. 

"  One  of  the  most  simply  beautiful  little  dramas  in  any  litera- 
ture. No  one  can  read  the  play  once  without  :i  disposition  to  re- 
turn to  it  again  and  again,  and  he  may  do  so  with  the  full  assurance 
that  each  time  he  will  be  rewarded  with  the  discovery  of  new 
beauties."— Round  Table. 

FrithioFs  Saga.     From  the  Swedish  of 

ESAIAS  TKGNER,  Bishop  of  Wexio.     By  the  Rev.  WIL- 
LIAM LEWKRY  BLACKLEY,  M.  A.     First  American  Edition. 
Edited  by  BAYARD  TAYLOR.     12  mo.     $1.75. 
"The  modern  Skald  has  written  his  name  in  immoratal  runes  on 
the  mountains  of  his  native  land,  and  on  the  cliffs  that  overhang 
the  sea,  and  on  the  tombs  of  ancient  heroes  whose  histories  are  epic 
poeins.    Indeed  the  '  Lrgend  of  Frithiof '  is  one  of  the  most  remark- 
able productions  of  the  age."*— Longfellow, 

"No  poetical  work  of  modern  times  stands  forth  so  prominently 
and  peculiarly  a  reprenentive  of  the  literature  of  a  race  and  language 
as  the  '  Frithiof  s  saga." — Extract  from  Mr.  Taylor's  Preface. 

Nathan  the  Wise  ;    a  Dramatic  Poem, 

by  G.  E.  Lessing.  With  an  Essay  by  Kuno  Fischer. 
From  the  German.  Ed.  by  Rev.  0.  B.  FROTHINGHAM. 
16mo.  Cloth,  gilt  top.  $1.75.  (In  press.) 

An  Episode  of  the  Kalevala,  the  Great 

Finnish  Epic.     Translated  by  the  late  Professor  John 
A.  Porter,  of  Yale  College.    16mo.    Cloth.    (In  press.) 

U^f"  The  four  poems  above  named  are  finished  in  uni- 
form style  and  initiate  a  series  which  the  publishers  hope 
to  continue — if  the  public  taste  shall  warrant — by  the  ad- 
dition of,  among  others :  Goethe's  "  Herman  and  Dora- 
thea ;  "  Tasso's  "  Aminta,"  translated  by  Leigh  Hunt ; 
44  The  Wooing  of  the  King's  Daughter,"  from  the  Nor- 
wegian of  Munech  ;  "  Boris  Godounoff,"  from  the  Russian 
of  Pouschkine ;  "  Nala  and  Damajanti,"  translated  from 
the  Sanscrit  by  Milman  ;  and  a  translation  of  Bodenstedt's 
version  of  the  Turkish  songs  of  Mirza-Schaify. 


